


See How The Main Sail Sets

by tomato_greens



Series: See How The Main Sail Sets [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Sailing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:59:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomato_greens/pseuds/tomato_greens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The S/V Inception has four masts, seven sails, six bunks, and, like most boats, more debt than the European Union.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Story

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this as a Take Your Fandom To Work Day on the Inception kink meme [here](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/15916.html?thread=32658988). As a note, I'm a deckhand, not a captain, and I never stepped foot on a sailboat before I started working on one, so if I get things wrong about sailing, please feel free to tell me! Title and cut text are from a song about sailing that I kinda like called "Sloop John B."

The S/V Inception has four masts, seven sails, six bunks, and, like most boats, more debt than the European Union.

Arthur knows this. Arthur knows this like he knows everything else about Dom Cobb's sinking ship of a company, because he's worked here since high school ended and real life began, and he found out he didn't have any way of reconciling the two. The Inception's seen him through seven years, Mal's death, two longterm girlfriends, a brief affair with higher education as well as its spectacular end when the bank decided not to give him any more money, and more tourist-and/or-Eames-inspired rage blackouts than he can count. He can run the office with his eyes closed, he can hook up a bosun's chair in thirty seconds and re-tar a backstay not long after, he can patch a sail and fit chafing gear and _steer the damn boat_ , and none of these things changes the fact that Dom's looking at the uglier end of bankruptcy and that Arthur is decidedly out of a job if something doesn't come up soon.

Jesus Christ, Arthur thinks, rubbing his face, something better fucking come up soon.

-

"I hate to do it," Dom had said, months ago, while they were eating sandwiches on board a couple days before they closed for the season, "but I don't think I can do anything else. We have to put her up for sale."

Arthur had nodded. This wasn't the first time they'd discussed it. Dom had started by letting go of Nash, their mildly competent maintenance man––it was never fire, with Cobb; Mal had been the spirit behind Spintop Windjammers, the one who'd pointed and raved and, yes, fired. Cobb just sighed and shrugged and sent people on their way, last paycheck in hand. So he'd sent Nash along, because Arthur could head maintenance from afar, too, if he had to, and after that had started selling the boats, first the Dreamer and the Architect (a matched set, one mast each, thirty feet long), then the old ferryboat, the Projection III, still struggling after a new recruit cross-threaded something in her fuel pipe years ago, and finally the nameless string of rowboats and peapods.

The only ones left were the Inception herself, her dinghies, a skiff they could use as a yawl when they had to, two constantly deflating RIBs no one wanted, and an ugly little two-masted scow schooner called the PASIV that Mal and Dom had built themselves, that Arthur had helped design the rigging for, that James and Phillipa had been rocked to sleep on countless times. Dom still rented her out often enough on private weddings and weeklong sails that he clearly felt justified not getting rid of her, and as much as he might besmirch her name in public, Arthur would set––well, if not himself, then at the very least Eames on fire, before he asked Dom to get rid of her.

The whole process had gotten them through another season, just.

"And you'd do it with the condition that we still sail her, right?" he'd checked, just in case.

Dom had looked at him, eyes wide and wild. "What, are you crazy? Of course. The Inception's been around a long time." He'd patted the bench he was sitting on. "I've got enough left that I can pull it through long enough until we find the right person, and I'll still own more than fifty percent of the company. I'll still own the PASIV, too. We just need to find that person."

Arthur had nodded and swallowed the last of his sandwich. "Right," he'd said, "I'll see what I can do."

At that moment, Eames, who captained the PASIV when she had a job lined up and alternated between doing beautiful repairs and driving Arthur crazy when she didn't, walked by and said, "Arthur, however could you be propositioning Cobb? I've been dying to see what you can do for years."

"Fuck you," Arthur had said, pushing past, ignoring Dom's aborted cackle.

"Please do!" Eames called after him.

Arthur had snorted in spite of himself and then squared his shoulders. There was already a line at the top of the pier, despite it being October and starting to drizzle: good. They could at least go out with a bang.

-

But that was almost six months ago, and May is fast approaching. Dom had spent winter getting Spintop's finances in order and making increasingly desperate offers to possible buyers, including two unfortunate Craigslist encounters that Arthur would rather never speak of again. The back office around them is full of printouts and old brochures. Arthur picks one up off the table they're sitting at and starts ripping at last year's prices.

"We could always sublease dock space," he tries reluctantly. Dom's been renting the same dock and pier from the Nolan Inn for as long as the Inception's been around; if anyone could get away with it, it'd be him.

"What, and get the harbormaster on my ass, too? No thank you." Dom runs a hand through his hair and groans. "I just want to see my kids."

Arthur nods. He misses them, too, but after Mal died and they found James and Phillipa trying to sail away to find her in one of the falling-apart RIBs, it had been decided it would be best if they went and lived with their grandparents until Dom got back on his feet. He hopes they won't forget the sea.

"No, let's just––get the PASIV ready for her inspection, keep working on Inception's fire pump, and we'll see what we see, okay?"

"Okay," Arthur agrees. "If Eames sprays me in the face again, I might kill him."

"Permission granted," Dom says, smiling as wide as he ever does these days.

"Just as long as we're clear," Arthur says, and stands up, dusting his hands off reflexively even though he hasn't so much as touched a gas can in days. "I'm gonna go get another––oh. Uh."

There's a man standing outside the glass door at the front of the shop. He's wearing a well-tailored suit and tie––not exactly the usual getup in this business; Arthur's got a diesel stain on his sleeve and even Dom's button-down is wrinkled––and his arms are crossed. He probably can't see Arthur too clearly; the shop is small, but he's got to be looking not only through the merchandise, but through the doorway into the back as well. Still, he offers a head nod.

"What is it?" Dom asks.

Arthur shrugs and turns the lights on up front. "Someone at the door."

"What?" Dom says, craning his head around. "Jesus." He stands up, almost knocking his chair over, but Arthur's already at the door.

He grabs his keys out of his pocket and unlocks it. "Hello?" he says.

"Hello," the man says. "I heard you had a ship to sell."

Arthur opens the door wider and waves him in. "You're gonna want to talk to Dom Cobb," he says, and gestures towards Dom's emerging figure. "He's the man in charge here."

"My name is Saito." He holds out a hand for Dom to shake.

"Cobb," Dom says. "What do you want from us?"

"Inception," Saito says. "Is it possible?"

Arthur glances at Dom. "Of course," he says.

Dom nods. "Yes, yes, of course. I––would you care to sit down?"

"Thank you, Mr. Cobb." Saito walks into the back room and sits down at the rickety table. Dom and Arthur follow.

"So, uh, Mr. Saito," Dom starts. "How did you hear about Spintop Windjammers?"

Saito looks at the office appraisingly for long moments before answering: the ancient computer in the corner, the ledgers stacked neatly in the bookcase, merchandise still in its packaging. Arthur just barely stops himself from neatening the cardboard boxes up, even though they're about as neat as cardboard boxes full of advertising paraphernalia ever get.

"I came here years ago, with my first wife," he begins. "We were happy then. We went sailing on your very ship, Mr. Cobb, one of your sunset cruises."

"Did you," Dom murmurs.

"Yes," Saito answers. He clears his throat. "Well. Obviously, that didn't last. But I remembered your ship. I remembered how beautiful it was. Mr. Cobb," Saito says, leaning forward, "I don't want to grow to be an old man, filled with regret, waiting to die alone."

Dom shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Frankly, Arthur doesn't blame him. Saito is pretty intense. "I don't think any of us want that," he laughs awkwardly.

Saito leans back again. "I want to preserve something beautiful in this ugly world. And also," he adds, before the sentiment in the room can get any weirder, "I happen to know that the Inception is the only thing standing between Robert Fischer and his dream of a parking garage on the beach front."

"Fischer?" Arthur spits, unable to help himself. "He already owns half the damn town."

Saito nods. "Yes. He's looking to buy the Nolan Inn and its properties, including your pier, in order to acquire the zoning rights for his garage. I don't want to let that happen. This town shouldn't have such an ugly relic hiding its sunsets."

"Jeez." Arthur slumps back. "I can't believe this."

"Quite," Saito agrees. "The Inception is a big enough tourist attraction that I believe its continued run will keep him at bay. Fischer inherited his land from his father, you know––I'm the only thing standing between him and total real estate dominance, and I can no longer compete. Old money, old relations. It has power here that I can't fight."

"So what can you do?" Dom asks.

" _We_ , Mr. Cobb," Saito says, "that's where _we_ come in. I'm asking you to take a leap of faith with me. I want to help you, your ship." He looks at Arthur. "Your company. Your people. This town needs Fischer to break up, or at least to stop building up, his father's empire. I want to make sure that happens."

Dom squints unattractively. "How do I know you can deliver?"

"You don't," Saito admits. "But I can. So, Mr. Cobb, what is it? What are you asking?"

"We're talking big money here, Mr. Saito," Dom says.

"Try me," Saito dares.

"Three and a half million."

Saito looks at Dom searchingly. "I'm a man of honor, Mr. Cobb. To be honest, normally I would fight more––but I am trusting you. And you are trusting me." He holds out a hand slowly. "You have it."

-

While Saito and Dom are working out the final details of their payment plan––as far as Arthur can tell, Saito gives Dom some unholy amount money, and then Dom turns around and pays the equally unholy monthly payment on the Inception's mortgage, and that's all he thinks he really needs to know––Arthur heads back out to the boats. The Inception's been moored over at Southwest Harbor all winter, and she's not taking well to constantly grinding against dock; there's an ugly streak worn into the side that Arthur's going to have to paint over a million times, just like he always does.

As Arthur descends the gangway, he can see Eames busying himself on the PASIV. She's been drydocked all winter, and even though Nash and Arthur had managed to fix her up well enough to float, she's not in any shape for a Coast Guard inspection. Eames will never admit it, but the PASIV's his baby, for all that she'd already been a couple years old by the time he'd joined Spintop; he's a schooner bum down to his core, jumping from boat to boat and company to company, but he comes back to Nolan Harbor every summer without fail.

Arthur doesn't blame him. The PASIV loves him, too––she responds to him like she only ever did for Mal. Arthur's not superstitious, at least not by sailing standards, but he's been working on the water long enough to understand that boats have personalities; Eames charms the pants off of every woman he meets, so the PASIV is no exception. She flies over the water with an ease and grace that no scow schooner should have, by rights. This is one of the few reasons Arthur hasn't yet pushed Eames overboard and left him to the lobsters.

The other main reason is that Eames is competent, under all the flamboyance, and in a world of seasonal workers, competence is pretty hard to come by.

Currently, he's fiddling with the PASIV's rigging, which is just typical. Arthur had helped set her up, so of _course_ something has to be found lacking even though they can both rig a two-master in their sleep by this point.

"What's up?" he asks.

"Something's not pulling through smoothly," Eames says, tugging at a halyard. "I'll get back to you on it. Might need to climb up there later."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "You mean you'll get Dom to tell me to climb up there for you."

"Well, naturally, darling." Eames grins down at him. "Cobb understands that your lithe figure is ever so much more suited to it than my manly and bearish self."

Arthur flips him off.

He climbs the stairs onto the Inception. Now that he's out from the slightly more inland shop, it's freezing, and the wind is cutting right through his sweatshirt. His Chacos and hole-y jeans aren't helping. And of course he hasn't moved off of Dom's couch and into the fo'c'sle yet, so he can't even run below and grab a jacket. Goddammit.

Well, it could be worse. It could be raining.

The main deck's looking all right, and the quarterdeck needs a good scrub but otherwise is in good shape. The lifeboats need their labels darkened again, but Arthur needs to leave _something_ for the summer peons to do, so instead he heads down to the captain's quarters.

Dom doesn't actually live there, anymore, hasn't since Phillipa was born, so while there's still a bed shoved into one corner the compartment is pretty clearly a storage room. It's not terribly in disarray, because Arthur lives up to his reputation as a crazy person and goes on a cleaning spree at the end of every season, but a winter untouched hasn't done any favors. The company's shared bike clearly has a flat tire, too, which needs to be fixed sooner rather than later, and there's a stack of old log books that mysteriously disorganize themselves every winter, and....

Arthur makes a mental list, then climbs back up the ladder to the quarterdeck. He repeats the process for both passenger compartments and takes stock––extra line, check; extra pennants and flags in case the ones that currently grace their topmasts get too tattered, check; tools, check; washers and screws and nuts, oh my, check. He sticks his head into the heads and winces at the residual smell, but the tanks were pumped three times last season, so he knows they're empty. They've got to stock up on paper towels and toilet paper, but that can wait.

Satisfied, Arthur climbs the stairs, latching the companionway closed behind him, and turns around to Eames's smiling face. "Jesus fuck," Arthur says, "are you trying to kill me?"

"Oh, Arthur," Eames says, pressing a hand to his heart, "the only death I want to give you is a little one."

Arthur feels frustration start to bubble under his skin. "What do you want?"

"You wound me," Eames says, "ignoring my amorous advances so. I have only the best intentions, you know. I'll make an honest woman of you yet."

"Shut up, Eames," Arthur orders. "What is it?"

"We'll need to check the peak on the PASIV's main. Something's caught on the upper block and if we try to raise sail, I'm afraid we'll end up with more hole than canvas."

"I know you are not actually this stupid," Arthur says, turning away from him, "but––"

"Darling, if you remind me one more time that the sails are not actually made of canvas, I will in fact beat you with one of these belaying pins. There are several extra. I'm sure Cobb wouldn't miss one."

"That's not what I was going to say."

"Arthur, I hesitate to ever call you predictable or without imagination, but––"

"It's not what I was going to say," he insists mulishly, and jumps onto the dock before Eames can say anything back. "So. Do you have any idea what's causing the problem?"

"If I knew that, I'd have fixed it already," Eames says, sounding irritated.

"Forgive me for wanting a little specificity," he says as he climbs onto the PASIV, voice more acerbic than he means it to be, and closes his eyes for a second to regain his composure. Eames is going to be spotting him in a few minutes while he's fifty feet in the air, literally hanging by a thread. (Well. A line. Still.) It's not a good idea to piss that person off. "Okay, do you have a line ready?"

"As always," Eames says, behind him already, "but I left the knots to you, since you don't trust mine."

Arthur savagely starts knotting two loops into the end of the line. "Oh my god, that was years ago. Can't you let it go?"

"I will never let go of anything you give me," Eames says, serious.

"Fine," Arthur says, deflecting as best he can, "then put your freakish tendencies to use and don't let go of the rope."

"The line, Arthur, the _line_ ," Eames says, because he is an unbearable person, but he grabs onto the end and holds on tight, so Arthur doesn't really care.

"Okay," he says, putting one leg in each loop and pulling it tight.

He climbs onto a cabin top, then onto the belaying pin rack. He pulls up onto the lower jaw of the sail, and then the upper––and here where it gets interesting, he thinks. "Ready?" he calls over his shoulder, but of course Eames is ready. At the end of the day, he always is.

Arthur starts shimmying up the mast. It's slow going and a little rough, but he finally gets his footing on the bottom of the topmast and leans over the inspect the pulley. "Oh shit."

Eames is too far away to hear him properly, but he must be able to make out something on Arthur's face or posture or whatever, because he yells up, "What's wrong?"

"The line's fucked up," he yells back. "It's caught on the edge of the block."

"So...just put it back," Eames says, slowly, like Arthur's a child.

Arthur bristles. "It's not that simple. The line's started to come undone. If I leave it here, it's just going to come apart and catch again. And eventually break."

"Fucking cheap line," Eames swears. "Fuck. Okay. Are you done up there?"

"Lemme check over the rest of the line while I'm up here," Arthur calls, and has a harrowing few minutes when his foot slips and Eames is the only thing keeping him from crashing through the deck. Luckily, Eames is decidedly heavier than Arthur, and, as annoying as he is, a really fucking good sailor, so nothing terrible happens.

"Yeah, okay," Arthur finally says. "I'm coming."

"I have so frequently longed to hear you say those words. It's sad that this is the circumstance under which I finally experience it," Eames mourns.

Arthur shakes his head. Shimmying down is decidedly more irritating than going up. Arthur gets a splinter in his thumb halfway down, which is worrying because it means the masts are getting a little too worn, and also, it hurts like a bitch. He holds on as best he can with a hand and four fingers, and he's all the way down to the cabin top when his hand finally slips and he falls backward.

He's wincing already, trying not to think about his complete and utter lack of any insurance whatsoever and how this is going to fuck up his back for the third time, when he hears Eames make a startled sound and suddenly there are warm, large hands cradling him. "Easy does it," Eames says into Arthur's ear.

"Thanks," Arthur mutters, arms out on either side to find his balance, getting his legs down to the deck. Eames keeps holding onto him and Arthur feels himself start to get red with embarrassment. "Um," he says.

"Near, far, wherever you are," says Eames, "my heart will go on."

"Oh, fuck you," Arthur says.

"Uh. Hey," says a familiar voice from down on the dock.

Arthur drops his head and groans. "Oh my god," he says. "Nash."

"Nash!" Eames cries, finally letting go of Arthur, who straightens his shirt and tries to pretend nothing happened. "Love of my life!"

"I think Arthur's getting jealous over there," Nash laughs.

"I hate the entire world," Arthur says.

"Now, now, calm down," Eames says. "What can we do you for?"

"Well, I heard you might be short a deckhand or two, and I have some sailing experience," he says.

"Nash," Arthur starts.

"Look," he interrupts. He's as oily as ever, but Arthur hasn't showered in two days so he can't really talk. "I get that you can't keep me on in a permanent position. But you need deckhands and I already know what I'm doing, I'm willing to work for the usual pay––c'mon. Don't leave me hanging."

Arthur shrugs. "It's not up to me."

Both Eames and Nash stare at him now. "Darling," Eames says, "that is the most patently untrue thing you've ever said."

Arthur scowls. "I don't sign paychecks."

"Come on, Arthur," Nash says, "this is all just semantics."

"Big word!" Eames says.

"Fuck you," says Nash.

"Small words," Eames laments.

"Oh my god, everybody shut the fuck up," Arthur says. "Yes, Nash, fine. Three hundred a week just like everybody else, okay? You can live on the boat if you need to. But no making trouble, okay, you know why we put you in the maintenance yard the first time."

Nash nods. "That was a while ago. I don't get into fights anymore, okay? It's been years."

"Yeah, okay, Nash, I already gave it to you," says Arthur.

"Jesus. Just because I interrupted your moment doesn't mean you have to be mean, dude," Nash says.

"Oh, Nash," Eames sighs. "You've got the job. Go away so I can finish ravishing Arthur properly."

"Gladly," Nash says, and turns around, walking along the shorter edge of the L-shaped dock to climb up the gangway.

"Oh my god," Arthur says, "I can't believe that you haven't been killed yet."

"I'm only this charming for you, you know," Eames tells him. "Speaking of ravishing, you look as lovely as ever, Arthur, the rosy pink hue in your cheeks is very becoming, but during the precious moments I held you in my arms, I noticed you seemed a little on the chilly side. And––" Eames reaches forward and cups Arthur's face with a hand. "Yes, alas, the roses have undergone a spring frost, too."

Arthur truly desires to lean out of Eames's grasp and hit him, but he really is freezing and Eames is, as always, running hot. "Uh," he says intelligently. "Get your hand off of my face."

Eames smiles. "Get your face off of my hand."

With great effort, Arthur furrows his eyebrows. His face muscles are slow to respond because they're so cold. Arthur wants to kill everything. He manages to make himself step back. "Just because we live together half the time does not give you the right to be intimate with my person."

Eames has tugged off his windbreaker and his holding it out. He shrugs. "Face it, darling," he says, "this is the closest thing either of us has ever had to a functional committed relationship."

"Hey," Arthur says, affronted, but he takes the windbreaker. "Emily and Sarah were pretty functional." Until they broke up, anyway.

"And yet," Eames says, "here we are." He gestures at the empty expanse of the bay around them, populated only by lobster boats and two early yachts. The town pier is far away enough that the sound doesn't filter across the water clearly. Arthur has the eerie feeling that he and Eames are the only two people left in the town.

The idea is, distressingly, not entirely unpleasant.

Arthur tries to put it out of his mind and shoves his arms into the jacket, which the same battered red one Eames has been wearing for the past five years. Arthur's worn it before, of course; when you live two feet from someone about your height, have rotating days off, and laundry is a once-in-a-summer pipe dream, clothes-sharing becomes not so much a possibility as a necessity. Eames is bigger than him, though, and the windbreaker is a size up so he can wear layers underneath (as, Arthur notices, he's doing now, and curses himself for his single sweatshirt). The sleeves nearly cover his hands.

"Stay warm, sweetheart," Eames says, and before Arthur can do more than make an annoyed sound––he'd given up the fight on "darling" a long time ago, but "sweetheart" is on the newer side––Eames ducks down below.

Arthur doesn't go below on the PASIV if he can avoid it. It reminds him painfully of Mal; the PASIV is imprinted in the shape of her absence, too dear and too terrible at the same time. Eames loved Mal, of course, he couldn't not, but he'd come to Spintop with experience and options and friends. Arthur hadn't had anything except Mal.

"Fuck you too," Arthur yells at the open companionway.

"You're welcome," Eames's voice comes wafting up, faint.

Arthur zips the windbreaker the rest of the way and tucks his nose inside. He walks to the deck nearest the dock and grabs a shroud to start scaling down; the PASIV is difficult, like everything Eames loves. She borrows the bottom half of the Inception's stairs when she has passengers, but without that, it's either an awkward climb or jumping the distance between deck and dock, which ends in broken teeth and wet clothing if you judge it wrong.

Arthur's not into doing things wrong.

He allows himself a few moments to wallow. The boat's being bought by a fucking tourist in an industry that both relies upon and has no room for tourists, he's going to be working with Nash all season, he's going to be working with _Eames_ all season, and he's going to be living with them both in a cramped bunk with neither shower nor personal space. Plus they still need at least one more sailor and someone to man the ticket booth on the pier––Sharon will be the office manager and run the shop up on Main Street, like she has since Mal died, but she can't be in two places at once––and that's only if no one wants a day off.

Fuck my life, Arthur thinks, and heads back up inland.

-

Spintop opens for business on May 3rd, but the weather's awful, so they don't actually sail until the 6th. The three days are long and miserable––they're still doing maintenance on the PASIV and there are still touch-ups on the Inception, but it's too rainy to do cushy paint jobs, so Arthur's been stuck in foul weather gear and arms-deep in engine parts for way too long. Eames hasn't been much better off, nor has Dom; Nash weaseled his way out of it by leaving a clearly hungover message on Spintop's office machine explaining that since he was a deckhand and no hands were currently on deck, as it were, he'd show up when the sailing started. Arthur has to stifle the urge to fire him at least once an hour.

Dom's scrabbled up a couple of nameless townies to work for $25 a sail. Nash manages to strike up a few friendly conversations with them, but Arthur can't find it in himself to try.

"We really can't keep going like this," Dom says one night. They've been working since seven in the morning, going on three sails and trying to keep the tourists dry, and somehow they ended at Minnie's, which has terrible décor but decent food and a fucking awesome karaoke night every Tuesday. Arthur gleefully breaks all the new deckhands' brains by rocking out with Eames at least once a summer.

Arthur chomps a fry in half and groans. "We need some crew members who aren't rich douche bags."

"Aw, they're not so bad," Nash says.

"You have quantifiably terrible taste," Eames reminds him.

"Plus paying them is a bitch and a half," Arthur points out. "Twenty five dollars a sail? They make more than I do."

"Oh, my Arthur, ever practical," Eames says proudly, patting him on the arm.

"This is disturbing for me," Dom says, grinning into his beer. "Arthur shouldn't have a personal life where I can see it."

Arthur pushes Eames off and scowls. "This is not a personal life. This is Eames being an unprofessional asshole."

"I resent that," Eames says. "Anyway, being the consummate professional that I actually am despite Arthur's libel––"

"I think you mean slander," Arthur says.

"––despite Arthur's fucking terrible attitude towards me," Eames continues, "I know someone who's looking for a position. Yusuf. He's been working out of Mombasa for a couple years, now, but he's been wanting to get back to the states."

"Why would you leave Mombasa for _Maine_?" Nash asks. "It's cold here."

Eames shrugs fluidly. "This country has its charms––why do you think I'm here?"

Everyone at the table glances at Arthur, who raises his middle finger and stares at the table. His life is a fucking sitcom.

"He knows his way around traditional vessels?" Dom checks.

Eames nods. "He's got some unconventional ideas about repairs and vanity work––makes his own varnishes and things, he's got a background in chemistry or something––but he's good at what he does. I'd trust him with my life. Hell, I have trusted him with my life."

Keeping each other alive is probably not something most members of the working world have to worry about, Arthur thinks, and is a little envious of them for a moment. They probably get to wear _suits_ every day.

"Sounds great," Dom says with the air of a desperate man. "Look, I'm heading back. I want to talk to my kids and I'm too old to be out this late, anyway."

"Dom, you're like thirty-five, you're hardly old and gray," Arthur says.

Dom shakes his head. "Sometimes I feel like I've already lived a whole life time." He swigs the last of his beer. "Are you coming?"

"Nah," Arthur says, "I've got most of my stuff in the fo'c'sle by now, and Eames fixed the leak above my bunk, so I'm good for living like a grown-up again."

Eames yawns and stretches an arm around Arthur's shoulders. "He just doesn't want to leave me."

Dom laughs a little and throws a ten and a five on the table. "Enough, enough. That should cover me. See you tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure," Arthur says as he leaves, then goes back to glaring at Eames's hand. "I am not drunk enough for this."

Nash grimaces. "Me neither. I'm heading back to the boat. Try to keep it down, lovebirds, okay, no sex while I'm around."

"That was _once_ ," Arthur says at his retreating back, "I _hate you_."

"You don't hate me, do you?" Eames asks, low.

"Don't push it," Arthur snaps.

Eames squeezes Arthur a little tighter. "So how come I've never heard you having sex?"

Arthur makes a rough movement with his shoulders, trying to dislodge him, but it doesn't work. "It was before I met you, when I was still young and stupid. Emily and I were working here, we thought Nash was still at Minnie's––I'm sure you can tell how this ends."

"I never liked Emily," Eames muses.

"You didn't meet her at her best," Arthur says. "She never liked it here all that much and she didn't want to be working with me because we'd just broken up, but Dom's the best-paying captain around this area, so."

"I didn't meet you at your best, either," Eames says, "but I always liked you."

It's true; that year had been the worst in Arthur's life. During a five-month period, his girlfriend of three years had dumped him, the bank had all but laughed at him as they denied his loan, and then his mom was diagnosed with late-stage ovarian cancer. Arthur had felt stretched thin and wan the whole summer, so when Mal introduced him to Eames, bright and loud and happy, Arthur had immediately been drawn to him like a moth to a goddamn flame. He'd only figured out how annoying Eames was a few days later, and by then it was too late.

"I never said I understood you," Arthur says. "I'm getting more beer." He pokes Eames's arm to get free, pushes around him out of the booth, and stands up. "You want I should get you something?"

"No, thanks, I need to stay sober enough to appreciate your deteriorating sense of grammar when you get tipsy."

"Fuck you," Arthur says easily. He doesn't usually give himself the luxury of feeling relaxed, but soon Eames's friend will show up, and jobless college kids will start migrating in, and the boat's got a financial backer, now, and everything's going to be fine.

"PBR," he tells Peaches, his favorite bartender, who hands it over and marks it down on his tab.

"You fucking hipster!" Eames crows when Arthur finds his way back.

"Don't judge me," Arthur says primly, shoving him farther back so that Arthur's the one on the outside this time. "Like a good hooker, it's cheap and it does its job."

"Yeah, and it tastes like _piss_ ," Eames says.

Arthur snickers. "That's not a sign of a good hooker, Eames, you should get out more." He takes a long drink.

Eames looks disgusted. "The things you can overlook amaze me."

"Yeah, me, too," Arthur says, and ruffles Eames's hair.

"You sly minx!" Eames sounds delighted.

"I love this beer," Arthur says. "The cans are big."

"There are so many places I could go with this," Eames sighs. "But I'll refrain."

"You're too good to me."

"Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated."

"Never mind, I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"And how would you know?"

"You love terrible things," Eames explains. "Me, for example. And also that terrible waste of alcohol you're drinking."

"It's not a waste." Arthur pets his can. Maybe he's a little tipsy. Technically he's on his third sixteen ounce can, and he's not that much of a drinker off-season.

"You just want to look cool," Eames accuses.

"Oh, yeah, give me a cigarette, a beret, and a copy of _House of Leaves_ and I'll be all set." Arthur snorts.

"You've read _House of Leaves_ , haven't you?" Eames asks suspiciously.

"Like halfway," Arthur admits, "but then Fat Charlie quit and I stopped having days off, and then it was winter and I got busy at the maintenance yard and trying to help Dom sell the boat and everything."

"Oh my god," Eames murmurs, "if you didn't have a work ethic and such a bizarre loyalty to Cobb, you'd be at some Northeastern liberal arts college talking about philosophy or something equally horrible, wouldn't you?"

"I was at UMaine for English for a year," Arthur says. "Close enough?"

"That's right, I remember now." Eames steals Arthur's beer and swigs it. Asshole. "Do you miss it?"

Arthur thinks about it. He'd liked his classes and the parties were all right, but––"Not really. I'd miss the sea more."

Eames takes Arthur's beer away entirely, bypassing Arthur's uncoordinated grabs for it. "You're getting maudlin, you'll thank me in the morning."

"Not likely," Arthur counters, "I make it a policy never to thank you for anything if I can help it."

"And now you're giving away state secrets," Eames says. His voice is entirely too amused for Arthur's liking. "Upsy daisy, there you are. No, no, put your wallet away, you can pay me back later with sexual favors or something equally exciting."

"You wish," Arthur says, aware that he should be embarrassed by himself but not quite getting all the way there.

"I wish many things when it comes to you, Arthur––thanks, Peaches, here you go, I've got to get this one home––I doubt even you can guess their depth." Eames puts one hand on Arthur's arm and one on the back of his neck, steering him towards the exit.

"I told you not to be intimate with my person," Arthur grumbles.

"Well, as a wise bard once said, you can't always get what you want," Eames answers.

-

Three weeks pass in a blur. They replace the townies with three equally featureless regulars, who commute every morning and make no waves. Arthur hasn't gotten a real day off, yet, but he can feel one coming like the glorious spring that's surely just around the corner. Yusuf appears and moves in with very little fanfare, although he does appropriate a corner of the aft passenger compartment, which he fills with his own tools and mysteriously-stained paint cans. Arthur almost argues until Yusuf wades into the bilge and does something magical that makes the water run clearly through it for the first time in years, after which Arthur labels the area "Yusuf's kingdom" and gives him his very own roll of electrical tape in a private ceremony on the pier.

"It took a full season before you gave me electrical tape," Eames complains.

Arthur slaps his arm. "You never cleaned a bilge for me. Besides, most people never get one at all, so be grateful."

"Do not be jealous of me, Eames," Yusuf orders. "Just because I have enraptured Arthur's heart by simply re-imagining the bilge route––"

"Yusuf," Eames warns, "I brought you into the world of Inception and I can take you out again."

Yusuf sniffs. "I doubt it." He tucks the tape in his back pocket and smiles beatifically. "I'm going to go check the foredeck."

"If you move anything without telling me, all your privileges are revoked and I'll allow Eames to give in to his violent impulses," Arthur yells. Yusuf flaps a hand behind him, although Arthur can't tell whether it's in recognition or disregard.

"He's going to demand a raise before the summer's out," Eames advises. "Yusuf's always been fond of the lucrative aspects of sailing."

"Which are?" Arthur asks, dryly.

"Touché," Eames says, laughing.

"Whatever, he can take my share of tips from wedding parties if he wants."

Eames shakes his head and clicks his tongue. "I'm afraid I can't allow that."

"What are you talking about?"

"You work too hard to give up your tips. What? Stop looking at me like that. I'm serious."

Feeling exasperated, Arthur says, "You're a strange man, Mr. Eames. Fine. Give him Dom's shares."

"You're awfully cavalier with Cobb's money, there, Arthur."

"Oh my god, Eames. What do you want? You can give him yours, how about that, will that make you feel better?"

Eames looks shocked. "No, no, give him Cobb's, by all means."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "I very rarely know why I put up with you."

Eames nudges forward and kisses Arthur gently on the temple. "Buggered if I know, darling," he says, and skips off down the gangway.

"Why does everyone make a dramatic exit around here?" Arthur asks the air.

"I––I don't know?" a small voice comes from behind him.

He closes his eyes in defeat. "And why does everybody show up at such awkward moments?"

"I. Uh. I still don't know?" says the voice.

Arthur turns around and then looks down. "You are?" he asks.

"Ariadne," the girl says. "I'm here about a job? Sharon up at the office just told me––"

"Oh, yeah, sure," Arthur says, nodding. "Sorry. Can I just see your application?"

"Absolutely," the girl says, handing it over. "I don't really have sailing experience, but I've answered phones before. Well. I mean, it's all there."

"You're a student?" he asks, flipping the page over.

"Not at the moment," she says, turning a little pink. "That is, I'd like to be. But I'm trying to scrape some money together first."

Arthur holds up a hand. "You don't need to tell me, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ask. I just meant, will you be here until the end of the season?"

"When's that?" Ariadne asks.

"Mid-October or so," Arthur answers. "You'll be done by Halloween without a doubt."

"Then yeah, I guess," she says, twisting her hair around in one hand. She looks down; she must realize what she's doing, because she abruptly stops and squares her shoulders. Arthur immediately likes her. "I mean, yes. I'll be here."

"Good, good," Arthur says. "Well, I'll have to check with Dom––Dom Cobb, captain of the Inception, he owns the company and he'll be your boss––but this all looks fine."

"Right. Um." She pauses, like she's about to go, but turns back. "Could you––would you mind telling me what the job entails?"

"Oh, sure," he says. "Well, you'll probably be in the pier office, which is the little booth stuck on that platform right there. You'll sell tickets, answer phones, run security when we've got cruises in, that kind of thing. Dom will tell you the days are twelve hours long, but they're more likely to be thirteen to fifteen, especially when you're in the booth, because you've got to count up your day's cash and clean up and everything."

"Do you think––do you think I'd ever get to sail?"

Arthur looks at her, her tiny frame and her clear determination, and wants terribly to say, _Yes_. "I don't know," he answers instead, honestly. "We need a booth person more than we need a sailor right now." She slumps a little, like she's trying to hide it. She's probably too small to be on foredeck on really windy days, she just doesn't have the weight to throw around, but midships is a possibility and not every day is a windy day, after all–– "If we find another office person, I'll see what I can do to get you in once in a while, huh?"

Ariadne lights up. "Awesome," she says, "that would be great. Thank you!"

"You can come along on this afternoon's sail, if you want," Arthur offers. "For free, I mean. It's a good way for you to see what's up, what you'll be asked to do, and it will give you a chance to talk to Dom afterwards."

"Cool," Ariadne says. She's not wearing anything fancy, just jeans and work boots and a jacket, but Arthur gets the feeling she'd probably drink PBR, too, if she had the chance.

"I'm not asking this to pry, either," Arthur says, "but where are you from?"

"Minnesota," Ariadne answers, like she's not sure what's coming next.

Good, that means she knows what cold is, at least. "Do you have living arrangements while you're here?"

"Sure," Ariadne says.

"Living arrangements that aren't your car?" he prompts.

Ariadne blanches. "Well."

"Look, as long as you don't mind living with three guys, we've got room on the boat," he puts forward. "I mean, obviously, I can only offer it if you get the job, but I seriously doubt that you won't get it."

"Okay."

"It's probably not much better than a car, to be honest, but you won't have to evade anybody to sleep at night, there's room to stretch out, and we can give you a parking pass for the lot behind the hotel, so you don't have to move your car every couple hours," Arthur says.

"Sounds––well. I mean, I guess I'd better go on the sail and talk to your boss first, but. It sounds good."

"Yeah," says Arthur, "okay, come back at, say, 1:30 and I'll send you on down to the boat, okay?"

"Sure," Ariadne agrees, nodding. "See you then!"

-

Ariadne shows up at exactly 1:30. Arthur, who's getting ready to take tickets, ushers her on down. "Dom's the guy by the wheel," he explains.

"Oh, sure," she says, biting her lip.

The sail is pretty uneventful, thirty passengers barely making a dent in the available bench space; they motor out of the harbor, Dom runs everyone through the procedure over the loudspeaker, then the deckhands call up volunteers to help raise sail. Arthur beckons Ariadne over to the mizzen, where he and Eames are up on a bench.

"Okay," he says, for his three volunteers, while Eames is giving a similar speech to his volunteers. "This is the mizzen sail. Follow my count, pull down every time I say one, two, one, two, all of us together, all right? Keep your hands––yeah, just like that." He looks at Eames. "Ready?"

"As always," Eames answers.

"Here we go," Arthur says, and starts pulling.

They get the spanker and the mizzen up, then run to for the fore and main. Yusuf and Sam, one of the regulars, are running midships. He and Eames are up on foredeck, where they belong.

"Cobb's showing three fingers," Eames calls.

"Gotcha," Arthur says, and gets the staysail going. It's not too windy, so it's not a surprise that Cobb wants both jibs up. This means a better sail, but it also means they'll need Yusuf on fore; Sam's all right but he doesn't know what he's doing all the way, yet, and when they turn, Arthur needs someone on the outer jib sheet who's not going to fuck shit up.

Cobb gets on the loudspeaker gives everybody permission to start moving around, which he always does before the coiling's done, the bastard. Arthur hurries up his ballantine so no one will trip over it and foul up the line.

Yusuf is busy coiling the last spanker halyard at the moment, glaring daggers at Sam, who's loitering awkwardly by the main mast. Arthur makes a mental note to tell Cobb to yell at Sam about doing his share, or something. He motions at Yusuf, making a switching motion with his fingers and hoping the hundred-odd feet separating them aren't making it too difficult to understand him.

Evidently not, since Yusuf jerks an irritated thumb in Sam's direction and then makes his way to the foremast, giving Arthur a thumb's up once he's there. Arthur blesses him silently and rehooks the thin nylon line separating the foredeck from the main deck and keeping the tourists out of his territory.

"Good show," Eames says from the other side of the staysail, "I've forgotten how quick you are."

"You tell me that every day," Arthur says.

"I forget every day," Eames says, spreading one hand wide, his eyes guileless.

"I'm not convinced," Arthur answers, and hops up on the edge, resting his feet on the starboard anchor and balancing there. "Lobster pots, twelve and your side."

Eames signals back to Cobb.

"What's he doing?" he hears Ariadne's voice behind him, and turns around to see her there, tiny, still, sitting cross-legged on the bench.

He slides off the edge and walks over. "See the buoys across the bay?"

Ariadne nods.

"Each one is connected to at least one lobster pot," Arthur explains, "sitting at the bottom of the bay. There are dozens of feet of line attached to each one, and if he doesn't steer through them right––"

"They'll get all tangled," Ariadne says.

"Right, exactly."

Eames calls, "Kayakers, twelve, your side."

"Twelve?" Ariadne asks.

"It's sunny, he can see them fine," Arthur answers, but he holds up his fingers to demonstrate for Ariadne, two on his left hand and one on his right. "Twelve is dead ahead of the ship, leaning them port or starboard––uh, left or right, I mean––means that they're there from twelve over to that side or that if he nudges the boat in that direction, he'll run right into them. We also do eleven and one. Pretty self explanatory."

Ariadne draws her fingers together. "Like this?"

"Yeah," Arthur says. "Like that."

"Arthur," Eames yells, "tacking."

"Yes, thank you, Eames, I am actually able to tell what the boat is doing," Arthur huffs, but he excuses himself and gets ready for Eames to pass the sails over.

"You don't like him too much, huh," Ariadne says, after.

"Who, Eames?" Arthur glances over, where Eames is busy laughing with an elderly lady who looks kind of like a squashed-faced cat. "No, he's all right."

-

Arthur's balancing on the bowsprit, finishing the daisy chain on the inner jib, when he hears Eames say Dom's name. "What?"

"Looks like your little friend's getting worryingly close with our very own Captain Cobb," Eames repeats.

Arthur climbs down onto the foredeck. "They're just talking about the job," he says, but he sees Eames's point––Ariadne's clearly starstruck. It would be kind of cute, if Ariadne weren't five seconds older than jailbait and Dom weren't something between Arthur's father and older brother, not to mention still fiercely in love with his dead wife.

"Do you feel an invidious stirring in your breast?" Eames wonders aloud, from where he's coiling the downhaul lines.

"What?" Arthur says again.

"Are you a jealous creature, Arthur?"

"What?"

"It's a simple enough question," Eames says. "Are you a jealous man?"

"No," Arthur bites out, which both he and Eames know is an appalling lie when he's actually, you know, _in a relationship_. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Eames smiles, comfortably at his most infuriating. "Just curious."

"Are you a cat, now?"

Eames shrugs. "There could be worse things. Nine lives gives me all the time to be curious I need." He retrieves his water bottle and takes a long swig; it's just starting to get warm out, and the sun glints off the slight sheen of sweat on his temples.

Arthur tears off his coat and throws it into the stack of lifeboats that sits in the center of the foredeck, where the various flotsam and jetsam of the crew always seems to end up. "She wants to be the box girl," he explains tersely. "I've talked to her twice. I don't think those are the hallmarks of a grand romantic affair."

"Oh, Arthur," Eames says, "you underestimate yourself. How could anyone talk to you without immediately falling a little in love? I'm only looking out for my investment."

"I can't deal with this," Arthur growls.

"That's right, run away, darling, you always do."

-

The thing is, Arthur and Eames have kissed once.

The summer Mal drowned was hideously awful. Spintop hadn't shut down except on the day of the funeral––they couldn't. Tourists don't stop coming just because the world's ended. Dom had the children, so Arthur took care of the Inception for the week Dom was gone, and Eames, well, Eames took care of Arthur.

The night before Dom was due to come back, Arthur dragged Eames to The Briny Starfish, which, despite its twee name, was the only place he'd trusted he could get drunk with a minimum of rich out-of-their-element fucks staring at him.

There was one couple in the corner who had clearly been looking for salty dogs and were a little dismayed at finding them, but other than that it was the usual crowd––fishermen and deckhands.

"Sorry to hear about Mrs. Cobb," Dan, the grizzled old bartender who wore a patch over his lazy eye, said. The straps cut into his hair on either side of his head.

"Yeah," Arthur said. "Tequila. Keep it coming."

He nodded sadly. "Is Eames drinking too?"

Arthur shrugged. "If he doesn't, I'll drink his share."

"Sure," Dan said, and passed two shots over. "But if you can't walk straight anymore, you're not getting any more liquor."  "Not fair to hold my past against me," Arthur said. "Fine, whatever."

So he and Eames had drunk, and drunk, and drunk––fine, mostly he had––and when Eames had poured him back into his bunk after forcing several glasses of water down his throat, Arthur had grabbed his arm and said, "Don't leave me."

"I won't," Eames promised.

They slept like that, curled together, mostly innocent. Arthur had woken up at four and cried into Eames's shoulder.

In the morning, Eames had woken Arthur at nine, saying, "You've got the day off, but we're starting to board passengers and if you don't want to be on the boat when we leave, we need to find a place to put you sooner rather than later."

"Thanks, Eames," Arthur said, head pounding, and kissed him, deeply, on the mouth.

"You're welcome, darling," Eames said, voice soft and shaken.

Arthur had gone to nurse his headache in the back of the shop, and neither Eames nor Arthur had ever spoken of it again.

-

The real thing, though, is that Arthur hasn't kissed anyone since.

-

Ariadne ends up being pretty good at her job, even if Arthur can't get her onto the boat for anything other than the occasional recreational sail on her day off.

"I'm sorry, I'm trying, but we just don't have anyone to replace you," he tells her one morning as they're getting dressed. "It's bad enough leaving Sam in there on Mondays, he always messes something up worse than he does on the boat."

"It's all right," Ariadne says. "I understand. I live in hope, but I understand."

Nash's voice oozes out from his bunk: "Keep it down, not all of us are early risers, okay?"

"You've got about ten minutes until you have to get topside to start getting the boat ready, so I don't think us talking is doing anything to harm your circadian rhythms," Ariadne retorts.

Arthur feels his heart swell with brotherly pride as Nash curses. He can see Yusuf giving Ariadne thumbs up out of the corner of his eye and hear Eames chuckling from where he's putting on his socks, and feels, for the first time this season, like he's got a crew behind him, not just a ragtag group of down-on-their-lucks.

-

Things stay smooth for another three weeks. Then the other shoe drops.

-

"What the hell are you talking about, Fischer needs dock space?" Arthur asks, stunned. Everyone's lurking on deck for this conversation, trying to look like they're busy; Eames is coiling and recoiling the bowline just in earshot, Nash is tightening the security lines' clove hitches, Yusuf is tinkering with a speaker behind one of the benches. Even Ariadne is holding wire connectors for Yusuf rather than opening the pier box.

"Just what it sounds like," Dom says testily. "Fischer needs to bring in his fucking luxury yacht and the town dock doesn't have any room at the inn because the harbormaster's a chickenshit."

"Fuck," Arthur says. "And the Inthertams are all right with this?"

"They have to be. They're scared out of their wits Fischer's going to buy their hotel out from under them."

"Do we get to keep the money from it?"

"If Saito does his job right, yes. Why?"

"Because the PASIV's still got all her faulty line in her. We need at least another spool of 3/4-inch line––"

"What are you talking about?"

"I––I thought I told you," Arthur says, glancing at Eames nervously, although of course Eames is still coiling that fucking line. "The rigging on the PASIV's all messed up, the line's coming untwisted. She won't last more than a couple sails as she is now. We're lucky it's early in the wedding season."

Dom's face has turned red and a vein is beginning to visibly throb in one temple. Arthur's stomach drops into his shoes. "You never told me."

"I guess we've all been busy––I'm sorry, I thought I wrote it down, it should've shown in the books––" he starts.

"So why the hell didn't it?" Dom yells.

"Calm down," Arthur says.

"Don't tell me to calm down!" Dom points a finger directly in Arthur's face. "This was your job, goddammit, this was _your_ responsibility." Arthur opens his mouth to explain, but Dom steamrolls right over him. "You were meant to check our supplies thoroughly. We are not prepared for this type of emergency."

"We've dealt with worse shit before, we'll be a little more careful, and we're gonna be fine," Arthur yells back.

"This was not a part of the plan," Dom seethes.

"I don't know if you've noticed, Dom, but things very rarely go to plan when you're part of something," Arthur grits out. "If Fischer uses our dock, we have the money to buy the line and extra, no problem."

"There shouldn't have been a problem in the first place," Dom says.

"It's not the––"

"You're useless to me like this," Dom spits. "Take the fucking day off."

Arthur feels sick. "I––who'll be on foredeck? It's Sam's day off, we need Yusuf and Nash on midships."

" _We_ don't need anything," Dom says, " _I_ 'll get Nash to call one of the townies in. You're not needed here, Arthur. Come back tomorrow when your head's on straight."

Arthur nods. His entire body is numb. He feels like he's eight years old and he's being sent to his room; he feels like his still-beating heart is being torn out of his chest. "Yeah. Yeah, okay, Dom. See you tomorrow."

He ducks down into the fo'c'sle to grab his jacket and his backpack, and hears feet on the ladder as he leans over his bunk. "Not now, Eames."

"Arthur," Eames says softly. "That's not––you have to know that's not true."

Arthur shrugs. "I know."

"Really," Eames says, walking forward and putting a hand on his elbow. "Cobb couldn't do anything without you."

"I know."

"He's upset. He's overreacting."

"Yes, Eames, I _know_ ," Arthur reassures him. He tucks his laptop into his backpack and turns, catching Eames's fingers where they rest. "It was two years ago tomorrow. We're all upset."

Eames looks down at him sadly, brings his other hand up to cup his chin, to stroke his cheek. "Oh, Arthur," he sighs.

Arthur closes his eyes and lets him do it. "I miss her."

"Darling," Eames says. "Me too."

"I'm pretty mad at Dom, actually," Arthur admits, like ripping a Band-Aid off. "He's––I don't want to say it."

"Say whatever you'd like," Eames prompts. "I shan't judge you."

"He's not the only one who lost her, you know?" he whispers.

"He's been made selfish with grief, love," Eames says. "He won't always be like this."

"Hurry it up, lovebirds!" Dom calls snidely.

"I may kill him before he grows out of it, though," Eames snarls.

Arthur tugs Eames's hand away from his face, but doesn't let go of it yet. "Don't," he cautions, "I'd so hate to see you put away for manslaughter."

"Please," Eames says, "like I'd commit anything less than murder."

"Arthur!" Dom says sharply. "If you're not up here in two minutes––"

"Hold your fucking horses," Arthur yells. He squeezes Eames's hand, then lets their fingers slide apart, and gently removes his elbow from Eames's grip. "Thanks."

"My pleasure," says Eames.

"Took you long enough," Dom says when Arthur makes it back out onto the deck, leaving Eames in the gloom of the fo'c'sle behind him.

"I seem to recall I have a day off today, Dom," Arthur says, pretending he's braver than he is. He imagines Mal's reaction to Dom's psychopathic tendencies––feigned shock, real irritation. She'd probably hit him. It makes Arthur feel better. "This is, if you can't remember, the first day off I've had in three and a half weeks, which makes it the first day off after about, oh, nearing three hundred hours of work, so I'm going to relax, enjoy it, and _take my fucking time_."

Dom gapes at him, wounded. He doesn't let himself waver as he crosses the deck and climbs off the boat.

He's almost to the gangway when he hears Eames's voice reach out to him, for heaven, earth, sea, and Dom to hear––"Karaoke tonight?"

Arthur nods, grinning, and turns back long enough to say, "You bet," right to Dom's outraged face.

-

The problem with being a transient workaholic, Arthur reflects, is that he doesn't have anywhere to go or anything to do, now that he's not on the boat.

This is how he ends up borrowing the company bike, re-inflated wheels and all, and cycling to Jordan Pond House.

It's been literally years since he's been there, not since Dom and Mal had celebrated their fourth wedding anniversary, James still an infant, then, Phillipa sitting on Arthur's lap and feeding him his spinach with all the cocky wisdom of a two-year-old. They'd driven there, in the Cobbs' embarrassing mini-van and Sharon's equally embarrassing station wagon, a company and a family in one. They'd forgotten reservations and ended up sitting outside for the better part of an hour until the table was ready. It had been a glorious mess.

The restaurant looks just the same, like it's allowing itself to surrender to summer, but only slowly, the flowers in early bloom and solely the braver or more desperate families sitting outside for any length of time. Arthur puts his name in for a table and decides to walk around the lake for a stretch while he's waiting.

The path is as narrow and damp as ever, and he keeps having to step aside to let determined young starter families pass him. There's a pang in the center of his chest, but it's not as debilitating as it used to be.

He doesn't make it very far before he hears a strangely familiar voice coming from behind a tree, which he blames on dehydration until he rounds a corner and sees a certain sharp-cheekboned heir talking on his Bluetooth, which doesn't make any sense because there isn't usually any cell coverage in the wooded areas of the island. Money, Arthur thinks disgustedly. It can definitely buy you love.

He hears Fischer mention pinwheels, which is probably some codeword in his dastardly plan to take over Nolan Harbor, and decides he doesn't want know, so he makes an awkward about-face and hurries back to the outdoors waiting area, where he desperately wishes he smoked for thirty minutes before his warning device vibrates and he shuffles inside to be led to his table, like a lamb to slaughter.

He's sat down at one of the two-person tables and gets a pitying look from his server––Martel from Heimdall! her name tag proclaims, which Arthur doesn't even think is a place. "Lemonade, please," he barks out.

"Sure." Martel writes it down. "I'll just be back in a few minutes to get your order."

Arthur feels simultaneously furious and humiliated. So _what_ if he hasn't had a date since Sarah dumped him three years ago. So _what_ if he he hasn't kissed anyone since Eames. So what if he's destined to die alone? Arthur doesn't need someone else to complete him. He is a strong and independent man.

He is also starting to sound like Oprah, so he quiets his internal monologue by staring at the prices and willing himself to believe he can afford more than the afternoon tea.

He hasn't succeeded by the time Martel wanders back to his table, so he orders the small pot and the two popovers.

"You...don't want your lemonade included with that?" Martel asks, eyebrows raised. "You'd like tea in addition."

"Yes," Arthur says. "Yes. I want tea and lemonade. I want it all. Give me the world."

Martel smiles at him gingerly and takes back his menu. "Yessir."

Arthur is being judged _so hard_. He reminds himself to tell Ariadne if someone named Martel ever comes with her work ID in hand, trying to get onto the boat for free because she works on the island, to block her down harder than the iron fucking curtain.

He's added most of the sugar mixture to the lemonade and is sipping it without lifting the cup, like a child, when two men in suits are shown to the table next to his. He scoots his chair aside to let the older one through and feels his face heat; his hair is sticking up with dried sweat and his clothes are the kind of clean they get when you leave them on the bottom of the dirty pile long enough. The old guy's a little craggy around the chin and he's got hair coming out of his ears, but he's dressed like a magazine ad.

Arthur glances sideways and almost chokes on his drink. The man sitting across the table from the old guy is Robert fucking Fischer, he of the pinwheels and the beautiful fishing yacht that's soon going to be sharing the Inception's dock space. Arthur is suddenly even more self-conscious. Robert Fischer is nearly as beautiful as his goddamn boat.

(Arthur's not gay. It's not like he has a problem with being gay, or anything, he's open to the idea or whatever, it's just that he's––well, to be honest, he doesn't want many people, gender not even taken into the equation. He doesn't _like_ many people. He's kissed four people in his life, for Chrissakes. Eames, now, Eames can flirt with anyone and does, but he's as gay as the day is long. Arthur's just picky.)

Martel bounces over with his popovers and his tea, handing them to him with a possibly-demented perkiness. "Here you are," she says.

"Thanks," Arthur says.

Martel looks at him. "Can I get you anythi––"

"Scurry along," Arthur interrupts. Martel nods and hightails it out of there.

Arthur breaks open a popover and tries not to listen to Robert fucking Fischer and "Uncle Peter," but unfortunately buttering, chewing, and pouring aren't particularly noisy activities, so he becomes privy to small parts of Fischer's exceedingly boring private life. Fischer doesn't have a girlfriend. Fischer doesn't have a family. Fischer, apparently, doesn't have friends, except for his godfather. Arthur is still overwhelmed by hatred but now kind of feels sorry for the guy, which doesn't help anything.

He orders another pot of tea out of spite. Martel nods nervously and smiles wider than can possibly be healthy.

He's just managed to completely lose himself in imagining the boat he's going to own someday––small, under fifty feet, two masts, the _Penrose_ ; Eames stubbornly appears in this daydream, one hand on the wheel and a smile on his face, so Arthur studiously ignores him and instead inspects the mast hoop screws––when he hears Fischer mention the Kingfischer, his obnoxiously-named yacht which at once infuriates Arthur and also causes him to salivate. He's seen her cruising around the bay, before, obviously. Everyone has. She's on the smaller side, but so daintily put together that Arthur wants to throw up with envy every time he watches her sail on by. He snaps to attention despite himself.

"I'm just worried about it, you know?" Fischer says.

Arthur restrains himself from throwing the hot tea in Fischer's face and insisting he refer to his beauty as "she." He reminds himself that not everyone grows up on his uncle's lobster boat, that not everyone has salt in his veins.

It works well enough that no one gets third-degree burns, although Arthur does slop tea over onto his clenched fist when he tries to raise his teacup to his mouth.

"I don't want it to be subjected to the kinds of abuse that go on at the town dock," Fischer continues.

"You think the Inception crew's going to be any better?" says the uncle.

"There are fewer of them, at least," Fischer says.

"I don't know. They're a weird group. The owner's wife killed herself two years ago, you know, that has to say something."

Fischer shrugs. "The woman on the phone seemed nice enough. I don't remember her name, something Greek, but she didn't sound like she was about to jump off the dock or anything."

Arthur can feel himself vibrating with the urge to throttle something. He sips his tea and takes three deep breaths.

"Well, we'll see," says the uncle. Then they start discussing repairs the Kingfischer might need after a winter mostly untouched, and are so grossly inaccurate that Arthur waves for his check and leaves in disgust before they get out of the engine room.

As he tucks the outrageous receipt into his wallet, he sees Martel has scribbled her name and number in the corner.

It's official. Arthur will never understand women.

(He ignores the inner voice that tells him it's all right, he doesn't have to, since Eames isn't one of those––the voice has a remarkably vague British accent that sounds absolutely nothing like Arthur's occasionally-flat vowels. Obviously Eames has infiltrated Arthur's subconscious or something.)

-

By the time Arthur cycles most of the way back to Nolan Harbor, it's raining hard enough to make his slippery perch on the thin shoulder of the road nerve-wracking. He almost gets hit by a car more than once, and when the bald tires skid and he ends up face-first in a vindictive blueberry bush, he realizes his life is a tragic joke and he should just go hide in the PASIV forevermore because it's never getting any better than this.

He's righted his bike but is still sitting by the side of the road when he realizes it's almost dark and that, fuck, unless he _rushes_ he's going to be late for karaoke, which is the only bright point this completely fucking horrific day has going for it.

This is how he ends up at Minnie's, irritated, soaked through, and limping slightly, but, he notices with some pride, five minutes early.

Eames, of course, is already here, not three sheets gone yet but definitely on his way; he's got a coffee brandy in one hand that's nearly down to nothing. "Arthur!" he calls. "My delight! What happened to you?"

Arthur rolls his eyes and shakes his head irritably, snapping some water onto Eames's ugly shirt. "Rain happened."

"Ah, yes," Eames says, nodding, "I used your foulies, by the way, thank you."

"How did you fit into them? You're like twice my size."

Eames snorts. "Are you calling me fat?"

Arthur can't answer that without incriminating himself in one way or another so he shrugs and says, "My sorrows need drowning," then winces because Jesus Christ, what the hell, drowning. He should never say anything out loud where other people can hear him.

"As you wish," Eames replies, and presses one large hand in between Arthur's shoulder blades while leading him over to the bar, pushing through a small clump of barely legal tourists wearing too-short dresses; Arthur immediately revises his plan to never saying anything out loud where people other than Eames can hear him, because clearly Eames is a godsend who understands him and his tragicomedy of a life. "Peaches, get my man here his heart's desire."

"Rum and Coke," Arthur tells her.

"Mostly rum," Eames advises. "It's been a hard day."

"I can see that," Peaches says, and hands over a glass. Arthur sips cautiously. It's not a rum and Coke––Peaches never pays attention to his preferences when he asks for harder liquor––but whatever it is, it's a masterpiece.

"Godspeed," Arthur says.

"It's on your tab," Peaches answers.

"Put it on mine," Eames offers.

Peaches raises an eyebrow and marks it down. Arthur is in alcohol-laden heaven and doesn't care who's paying for what as long as he gets to keep drinking this amazing concoction.

"Jesus Christ," Peaches says, rolling her eyes, "get him singing before he can talk anymore."

Arthur realizes with a jolt that his internal monologue is not, currently, internal, and flops his face into Eames's shoulder. "I'm going to die," he moans. "I told Dom Cobb to calm down. That's like. That's like telling Satan to lighten up."

Eames peers at Arthur's glass. "What did she put into this?" he murmurs. "You're not usually this ridiculous. Have you eaten?"

Arthur shrugs. "It's the most delicious thing I've ever tasted in a glass and I'm never going to get to taste it again because Dom is going to kill me."

"Cobb's not going to kill you," Eames corrects him, "Cobb would be utterly lost without you and you know it."

"Sure," Arthur says––there's modesty and there's modesty, okay, and he's not one to deny that, without him, Spintop would have gone down the tubes a long time ago––"but does _he_ know it."

"I'm sure he does," Eames says, gently leading him to a free table without actually dislodging his face. "I'm sure he does."

"I'm not," Arthur moans. "Peaches was right. Go sign us up for karaoke before I can talk more where people can hear me."

"No, no, no," Eames says, shaking his head, "I'm waiting until everyone gets here. We're going to put on a _show_."

"Let's warm up first," Arthur begs. "I'm rusty. It's been a long time since I've Minnie'd it up. A year, at least."

"Ten months," Eames corrects, "but all right, you do beg so beautifully."

Arthur lets his forehead thunk forward from Eames's arm onto the table as Eames goes to turn in one of the little slips of paper. "What song?" he asks, lifting his head only when he feels Eames's warm presence beside him once again.

"'Brand New Key,'" Eames answers lightly.

"You're a sadist," Arthur counters, and sips at his drink.

The song goes without incident, other than Arthur's voice cracking twice, extremely inopportunely, during the last verse. He doesn't much care, though, because at least he's got his drink.

Well. Sort of. "I can't believe this amazing thing is almost gone already."

"I'll get you another," Eames says. Arthur holds out the cup expectantly, but Eames shakes his head, laughing in a way that suggests _with_ rather than _at_ , insofar as laughing ever suggests prepositions. "When you've finished all of that one, you greedy boy."

Arthur furrows his forehead and sips, determined, but either the glass is fuller than it seems or it's been a while and he's a slower drinker than he thought, or maybe Peaches is just magical (he's gunning for the last possibility, himself), and most of the rest of the crew, except for Dom, is here by the time he's considering going to convince Peaches to make him at least one more of those drinks.

"Absolutely not, I've changed my mind about the refill," Eames says when he notices Arthur's roving eye. "One of those on no food was bad enough, I'm not driving you to a mainland hospital tonight in someone else's uninsured car, and you know no one else will drag your sorry ass to a decent emergency room. I'm getting you some food and something less likely to catch your liver on fire."

"Do cocky British men ever try to steal your booze?" Arthur asks Ariadne as she sits down a few moments after Eames has left to accomplish this goal.

Ariadne gestures to her Coke apologetically. "I don't really have that problem."

"You're so young," Arthur groans.

"Sorry," she says, and pats him gingerly on the back.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asks, unable to help himself. "I get the feeling that a lot of people are but I'm really not a scary person."

"Arthur," Ariadne says, then hesitates. "No, I'm not scared of you. Not anymore, anyway," she adds.

Arthur hides his face in his hands, totally aware of his own ridiculousness but helpless to stop it. "I'm a monster."

"That you are, darling," Eames says cheerfully, "I've always told you so. Peaches is getting Milky to make you a sandwich."

"Is everyone who works here named after foods?" Ariadne asks, awed.

"Nah," Arthur answers. "Just Peaches. And Milky, obviously, who works the kitchen some days. But everyone else has normal names."

"We try to avoid too much interaction on the normal people's nights," Eames tells her. "Although Joe's okay."

"Well, Joe runs karaoke and he's best friends with someone named Milky, of course he's okay, it was bound to rub off," Arthur says.

"Peaches's real name isn't even normal, either," Eames says, "I think she said it's very religious or something."

"I guess it'd have to be either really boring or really exciting to be willingly called Peaches," Arthur muses. "That's like the name of geriatric prostitute."

Ariadne looks faintly disgusted, but Eames snickers, so Arthur counts it as a win.

"So is this what you talk about on foredeck all the time?" Ariadne asks. "I mean, I'm kind of entertained, but somehow I thought there would be more snark and derring do."

"You're not seeing me in action," Arthur says. "I promise I'm much more impressive when I'm not drunk."

"Famous last words," Eames says, and grabs Arthur around the waist. "Don't go anywhere, our next song is coming up soon."

"You signed us up again? For what? Which song? I want the world to know that this is without my foreknowledge or consent," Arthur cries. He utterly fails to remove himself from Eames's hold despite his best efforts.

"You like it that way," Eames argues, with the air of someone who has won this argument many times before.

"You're sick," Ariadne accuses.

"Only for Arthur," Eames replies, grinning madly. "He just doesn't know what's best for him."

"I feel like I'm a 1950s schoolgirl about to get read terrible poetry about gathering rosebuds or something by a pedophile older neighbor," Arthur complains.

"Hmmm," Eames says, retracting his hand to stroke his chin with exaggerated care, "I'm not sure I'm fond of that image––now, school _boy_ , on the other hand––"

"ARIADNE," Joe says, mispronouncing it terribly, "is up next to sing one of Britney Spears's finest."

"Britney Spears, really?" Arthur asks.

"I'm a child of the nineties, what do you want from me?" Ariadne demands. "I'm going to sing before you make me throw up with your stupid flirtatious shit." She wipes her lips with back of her hand (yeah, the crew's definitely making an impression on her, Arthur thinks, though he's not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing) and smooths down her shirt. "Wish me luck."

"You don't need it," Eames starts, but when she glares at him, he hastens to add, "although of course I wish it anyway."

Ariadne nods. "That's more like it."

"Our flirtatious shit isn't stupid," Arthur says––Eames starts coughing––but by then she's already admitting to the crowd that, oops, she did it again.

Her voice isn't all that bad, and halfway through Yusuf arrives. He immediately joins her without taking off his coat, and they finish with a series of impressively flourished bows that Arthur is simultaneously thrilled and embarrassed by.

Eames goes to get a glass of water and ends up bringing back Arthur's sandwich, which Arthur falls on ravenously.

"Are you paying for this, too?" he asks. "You can have some if you like."

Eames shakes his head, waves a hand. "Soak up the alcohol," he orders.

"I don't think that's how it actually works," Arthur says, twisting his mouth.

"Semantics," Eames dismisses. "Pretend it'll work, and it'll work."

"It's like you're a genius," Arthur says.

"Aw, thank you," Yusuf says, "but I really owe it all to young Ariadne, here."

"I'm not young!" Ariadne says.

All three men look down at her.

"Not that young," she amends.

"You sang Britney Spears without irony," Eames points out.

"Oh, shut up," she huffs. "I'm old enough to catch the fucking boat, shut the fuck up, all of you."

"Old enough to curse like a sailor, too," Arthur says happily. "We'll make one of you yet, just wait."

Ariadne raises her eyebrows and takes back her Coke. "Okay," she agrees. "If you say so."

"I bet you already know more than you think you do just from listening to us bitch about it," Arthur continues through a bite of his sandwich. "What's a boom?"

She wrinkles her nose and makes an abortive gesture with her hands. "The big wooden thing on a sail?"

"Right," Arthur says. "A hitch?"

"A knot of some kind?"

"Right enough. A sheet?"

Ariadne stares at him. "The thing you put on a bed so you're not sleeping just on a mattress?"

Arthur winces. "Okay, maybe I haven't bitched enough around you."

"That's okay," Ariadne says, "don't go to any trouble on my account. I have enough to deal with without you whining in my window."

"I never whine," Arthur proclaims.

"EAMES AND ARTHUR," Joe says over the applause from the previous singer, "taking it old school with a little Salt-n-Pepa for you all."

"Talk about the nineties," Ariadne says.

"I take that back, I whine all the time," Arthur corrects himself. " _What the fuck, Eames_?"

"Just relax and enjoy it. Lie back and think of England if you have to."

"I think about you if I think about England," Arthur mutters.

"All the better," Eames says, and grabs his wrist. "Come on, darling, let's go talk about sex."

Arthur covers his eyes with a hand but follows Eames up to the karaoke platform. It's not high enough to be a called a stage, not properly, but it's definitely high enough to draw people's attention to them––and Arthur knows people will be looking. He is many things, but a liar isn't usually one of them, and watching Eames make love to a microphone is worth watching.

"Dedicated to the crew of the Inception," Eames says right before the music starts, "because no one's sexier than a sailor." Yusuf and Ariadne and Sam and even a few other summer regulars raise their glasses and their voices in agreement.

Nash is nowhere to be seen, probably wreaking havoc with his townies, Arthur thinks wryly, then promptly forgets to worry as the words come up on the little screen, all the introductory "uh-huh"s and "oh"s that Eames pulls off while Arthur stands stiffly by his side. He curses both his life and Eames's utterly ridiculous and totally apropos hip movements.

"Move it, move it," shouts Peaches, and, "Stop being such a stick in the mud, Arthur!" and, "I know you can do better than that, I've _seen_ it!"

Eames had let go of his wrist to shove the mic into his hand but reaches for it again as the chorus starts. Arthur manages to evade him––"Let's talk about you and me," Eames beseeches, and Arthur shakes his head, to both the good times and the bad times––but he feels his resolve weakening by the minute.

By the time they're on the actual verses, Arthur is fully aware that this has turned into some kind of cat-and-mouse show they're putting on for the entire bar, but he's still buzzed and it feels too good to stop in the name of something so comparatively unimportant as dignity or shame. He fucking yelled at Dom Cobb this morning. He has no dignity or shame left.

The whole bar gets into it, too, at least the people they know; the few groups of tourists look on in something like embarrassed confusion, but the waiters and retail workers and hotel maids who populate Nolan Harbor six months out of the year, the kind of people Arthur grew up around and knows and loves, all of them young and broke and uncertain where they'll go after the last October rush, the ones who've been watching Eames and him dance around each other for five seasons, they cheer them on like they've got something to lose.

Maybe they do, Arthur realizes. "Thinking about all the things she never had, no love, just sex––"

"––followed next with a check and a note," Eames replies, right on cue. They've fallen into the same rhythm they get into on foredeck, neither of them having to ask what happens next or tell the other one to move over. Instinct takes over. It's the kind of thing that makes good crews great.

He and Eames could be great together, Arthur knows.

Ariadne joins them on the platform for the last chorus, and Yusuf for the "Ladies, all the ladies" part, which Peaches responds to with great enthusiasm, dancing behind the bar, ignoring the group of businessmen who've just reached her (they seem all right, Arthur notices, as interested in her, uh, assets as in her liquor).

"How many guys you know make love?" Eames croons, and it's over.

Arthur's smiling wider than he has in months, he's sure, and Eames is looking pretty fucking starry-eyed, too; Ariadne gets Yusuf to help her hustle them down while Joe's looking for the next participants' slip, although Arthur's certain they've already been the hit of the night.

"That was the best form I've seen you in since you guys did 'Love Shack,'" Peaches tells him, handing him a glass. "On the house, man, on the fucking house."

"You're too kind," Arthur says.

"You really are," Eames tells her, and steals Arthur's drink away, sipping it thoughtfully. "That is delicious, though."

"It better be," Peaches says, "I invented it."

Arthur steals the glass again and he and Eames inch their way around the voyeuristic tourists, sneaking towards the back of the bar. It's harder than it seems––people keep stopping them and clapping them on the shoulder, congratulating them and shit.

"Look," Arthur says, when they're a little more alone, "look, do you maybe––"

"Arthur, if you say something that ruins the mood, I may actually kill you," Eames warns.

Arthur shakes his head. "I was going to ask if you maybe wanted to get out of here," he says honestly.

Eames draws in a breath.

"I know, I know," Arthur says, and knocks back the last of his drink. "But I don't know why it took me so long to just. I don't know. Deal with it."

"Don't fuck with me," Eames says. "If you're fucking with me, I don't know how––that's not fair, Arthur."

"I'm not fucking with you," Arthur says. "I wouldn't do that."

"No, I know you," says Eames, sending involuntary shivers up and down Arthur's spine because he does––he _does_ know Arthur, he always has. He takes Arthur's glass and looks forlornly at its empty depths. "You just had to finish it, didn't you?"

"One of us needs more liquid courage than the other, I think you'll find," Arthur says, and stands up, slipping his jacket back on. "Come on."

"Gladly, darling, gladly," Eames says, "let me just give Peaches my regards and most of my weekly funds in thanks."

Arthur waits by the exit while Eames pays up, feeling his blush slowly creep over him and not sure what, exactly, is going to happen, but excited for it anyway. Ariadne wiggles her eyebrows at him and Yusuf wiggles his fingers at him and Arthur sort of wants to die, but then Eames comes back and holds out a hand, and Arthur takes it.

-

He doesn't remember the short walk back to the boat except in snapshots, a street corner here, a shadow there, the sidewalk still slick with rainwater and dodging tourists the whole way. Eames keeps a hold on his wrist the whole time, proprietary, careful, wondering. Arthur has to lead the bike with one hand, but it's worth it.

They stumble to the dock, giggling their way past a family looking at the few wet brochures left out for constant publicity––Arthur takes a moment to bless Ariadne for bringing in most of the bunch, money not wasted, thank god. The mother looks at them in distaste and Eames almost starts howling, he's laughing so hard. Arthur dumps the bike and kisses Eames just to hear her affronted gasp, and then keeps on kissing him.

Eames breaks away, one finger still in Arthur's belt loops, and squints down the gangway. It's low tide; they're going to have to be careful going down the steep ramp if they don't want to lose themselves over it. "Wait, wait, wait," Eames says, avoiding Arthur's needy fingers, "wait. Nash."

Arthur groans. Yusuf and Ariadne are still at Minnie's, of course, but there's no telling if Nash is getting his desperately needed beauty sleep on the Inception or whether he's off gallivanting around town with his stupid buddies, and Arthur's not willing to get interrupted once he's started.

"We could try the captain's quarters?" Arthur says without much hope. "There's a bed there."

Eames shakes his head, eyes alit. "The PASIV," he says, "of course, the PASIV."

Arthur raises his eyebrows. "I think James might have been conceived on that bed," he says.

"I've changed the sheets," Eames says impatiently. "Come on, Arthur, come on."

"That's Mal's bed," Arthur says, still hesitant.

"She wouldn't have minded," Eames says. "She wanted us––you know what she wanted."

It's true, Arthur does know, probably better than Eames does, and she wouldn't have minded at all––would have pushed, would have insisted. Why bother remembering someone, he thinks, if you can't celebrate them?

"Yeah, okay," he says, and pushes forward down the gangway.

Eames has to help Arthur onto the deck and down the companionway into the PASIV's fo'c'sle, which is much smaller and darker than the Inception's, and somehow better for it. They're kissing on the bed, which does, in fact, have clean sheets, and Arthur's just gotten Eames's shirt most of the way off, when Eames stops him.

"What," Arthur snaps.

"Look," Eames says. Arthur can't see him too well except by the flashlight they're stupidly letting burn out in the corner, and the planes of his face look wrecked. "Look, if we do this, if we––I'm in this for the long haul, Arthur. I've wanted you for a long time. I'm not going to do this and then just pretend it didn't happen in the morning."

"Mr. Eames," Arthur says, his heart rising in his chest like it's a fucking buoy, like he's bathing in salt water, suspended––"I wouldn't dream of asking you to."

-

They wake up to Eames's and Arthur's cell phones going off in tandem, Arthur's with a utilitarian _bzzz, bzzz_ , Eames's ancient model singing out some godawful beeping electronic arrangement of "Like a Virgin."

"How did I never know you woke up to robot Madonna?" Arthur groans, unwilling to detangle himself from their blankets and Eames's arms and legs, their dark and hushed nest. "This would have changed everything."

Eames squeezes him closer and makes a growling, negative sound, but doesn't actually respond or get up. This is both irritatingly and deeply tempting. Arthur fights his own desire to lie back down and grabs for his phone, squinting at the time––it blinks 4:30 AM at him, innocently, and lets him know he has three missed texts and two missed phone calls.

"Fuck," he says. "Eames. Eames, get up, something's wrong."

Eames sits up, obviously disgruntled but not quite coherent enough to do anything about it yet. "Whassmatter?" he asks, dragging one hand across his face.

Arthur hands over the still-blaring cell phone and slides his own open to figure out what the hell is going on.

Eames scoots to the edge of the bed so he's properly sitting up before flipping his own open and answering, "Eames," his voice rusty and tired, one hand reaching behind him to hold onto Arthur's side. "What's up, Cobb?"

Both phone calls are from Dom and two of the texts are, too, the third from Yusuf; as he tunes back into Eames's conversation, another frantic one from Ariadne vibrates into being. He clicks the OK button and sees she's written _CHECK UR PHONE ARTUR!!!_

 _Not helpful_ , he writes back, but follows her instructions, struggling through Cobb's poorly-spelled and irregularly-capitalized texts before giving up and reading Yusuf's brief but illuminating version of the same story. He finishes just as Eames grimly snaps his phone shut and they look at each other.

"Fucking Nash," Eames says.

Arthur nods and buries his face in his palms. "Fucking Nash," he repeats, muffled.

"I guess we better head over to the boat," Eames sighs.

Arthur looks at Eames from around his fingers.

"The other boat," Eames clarifies.

Arthur snorts and shrugs and frees his face, then finally stands up, using his phone as a flashlight to look for his clothes. Eames joins him in the search and twenty minutes later they're standing at the bottom of the companionway, looking at the thin beginnings of dawn creeping in around the edges.

"Ready?" Arthur says.

"No," Eames says, and kisses him instead of climbing the stairs.

Arthur breaks away a few long moments later and regretfully retracts his hand from cupping Eames's cheek, then can't help but step forward and press one last lingering kiss to Eames's wonderful mouth. "Okay," he says. "Let's do this."

-

It's not until they're actually on the Inception and Ariadne starts coughing that Arthur realizes he's not wearing the right shirt. Arthur can't believe he didn't notice, and there's really no way that Eames didn't––Arthur's T-shirt is straining obviously across his shoulders––but he can't bring himself to care too deeply. The shirt looks good on him; a proprietary happiness curls into the space between his collarbones and takes root there.

It stays even as they realize Nash is AWOL and so is the nicest of the dinghies, and that Dom can't actually be there until later in the morning because he's got a fucking flat tire and no spare, of course, the asshole. It stays as the clock ticks past five and the sun resolutely keeps climbing, the earliest sunrise in the country, and it stays as Dom gets there and yells at them all because he can't yell at Nash, and it stays as Dom goes to sulk with Sharon in the main office, and it stays as Yusuf reminds them that even with Dom out of their hair, they're not out of the woods yet: they're short a deckhand.

And it stays as Arthur turns to Ariadne and asks, "So, you wanna be a sailor?"

"Yes," she says, eyes shining. "Of course."

"Good," Arthur answers, "because only Nash has the townies' goddamn phone numbers and we need you."

Ariadne smiles her brightest at him and says, "Aye aye, sir."

Arthur scowls. "If you ever say that again I'll kill you."

She nods and says, "Never again––sir," and skips out of the way to get Yusuf to teach her how to coil line.

"I rather liked it," Eames says, close in his ear, arm crooking around Arthur's waist. "Sir."

Arthur huffs and crosses his arms. "No."

"I just respect you so much," Eames says, simpering. "I can't help letting it show sometimes."

"I hate you," Arthur says.

"That's not what you said last night," Eames purrs. Arthur shivers involuntarily.

"Break it up," Yusuf calls. "Someone come help me with this speaker, Ariadne's busy practicing with the belaying pin and it's not behaving again."

"Fuck you, Yusuf," Eames yells, and doesn't let go, so Arthur is forced to wriggle his way out of Eames's grasp with a calculated elbow to the ribs. Eames kisses the top of his head before letting him go fully, and Arthur resigns himself to removing the word _private_ from his private life.

"Had fun last night, did you?" Yusuf asks, his voice not especially judgmental, just dryly amused, but Arthur can't help feeling a little embarrassed anyway.

It's been a long time since he's felt this happy. He's not really sure what to do with all of it.

"Maybe," he says. "A little."

Yusuf laughs and holds out a hand for the cutters. Arthur watches as he gracefully strips the plastic off the ends of two wires in order to connect them, and is stupidly grateful for his presence, because, for all that he's reworked an engine and fixed the radio before breakfast (although even he'll admit it leaves him on the crotchety side), he doesn't have Yusuf's easy, natural way with electronics.

"Try it now," Yusuf says.

"That was quick," Arthur replies, and snags Eames to help him do the radio and loudspeaker check while Yusuf runs Ariadne through the sailing routine.

He holds first the microphone and then the intercom up to the playing radio as Eames walks twice around the deck, cocking his head exaggeratedly to listen to each of the six speakers, throwing Arthur a thumb's up when he realizes each one is working.

"Yusuf, you're brilliant," Arthur says happily.

"I try," Yusuf calls from where he's explaining about sheets to Ariadne.

Arthur glances at Eames, who is pouting outrageously, and thumbs one corner of his mouth. "You should smile more, or your face will get stuck that way," he tells Eames solemnly.

"You shouldn't do things that make me jealous, then," Eames says. "Praising another man right in front of me. How rude. How ill-bred."

Arthur brings his hand down to rub the nape of Eames's neck, comfortable, comforting. "I'm sorry your massive ego's taking the hit so hard."

Eames sighs and nods, leaning into Arthur's hand. "It's truly painful to be so aware of my own best qualities."

It's weird; even with Emily and Sarah, Arthur's never had the overwhelming desire to touch them in public––not that he wouldn't or was ashamed of them or anything, because he would and he wasn't, obviously, he wasn't that kind of person.

Neither of them ever really demanded his attention, though, not on the job, and Eames does it by virtue of––of even _breathing_ , so maybe that has something to do with it.

Arthur tugs Eames along with him to start early inspection of the foredeck, making sure the crew properly put everything in its place last night even with the lure of Minnie's karaoke pulling them away. All is looking well in Arthur's world when Eames screws up his face to peer out over the water.

"What is it?" Arthur asks. "What's wrong?"

Eames keeps looking. "I think it's Nash," he says.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Arthur swears, turning to look out over the water, but his eyesight was never quite as good as Eames's. "No."

"Yes," Eames says apologetically. "I really think it is."

"Fuck!" Arthur says. "What the fuck was he doing?"

Eames shrugs. "I don't know, but he's got at least one other person in the boat with him."

"Goddammit," Arthur curses.

"Arthur," Eames says, sounding worried. "Arthur, I think he's––I think he might have lobster fishing."

" _Fuck_ ," Arthur shouts. "That fucking presumptuous oily bastard! If he so much as touched another fucking trap, I'll fucking kill him my-fucking-self!"

Eames turns and says, "Arthur, calm down."

"Don't tell me to fucking calm down," Arthur seethes.

Eames says, "All right, don't calm down, but darling, darling, please, there are going to passengers onboard in less than half an hour and it will take at least that long to properly get rid of blood stains, and Nash hasn't even hit the dock yet."

"The hose'll work fine, the water pressure's good and we've got some Simple Green left before the next Walmart run," Arthur says, but he feels himself start to slow down despite himself, Eames's hands on his shoulders soothing rather than patronizing.

"I'm not sure I'd trust Simple Green to hide the evidence in the event of murder, however justified," Eames says, drawing his hands from Arthur's shoulders to his elbows. "You good?"

Arthur takes several deep breaths and then nods. "I'm good," he promises.

Eames lets go. "All right," he says. "Let's go see what the dumbarse has done now."

-

By the time Nash fumblingly ties up the dinghy to the dock, it's clear last night's hangover hasn't hit him yet. The other guy's even worse off, falling into Arthur's disgusted arms and just sort of...staying there.

"I'm going to kill you," says Arthur, narrowing his eyes at Nash over the guy's shoulder. "I'm going to kill you dead."

Nash waves him off and giggles. Arthur shudders with revulsion and he pushes the guy onto Nash, who promptly stumbles into Eames.

"This is just unfair," says Eames. "I have a stronger sense of smell than you do and now I've got two of them."

"Them's the brakes," says Arthur, shrugging. "You snooze, you lose your right to personal space."

"Your sudden fondness for aphorisms is both worrying and vaguely arousing," Eames says, trying to wrangle his arms free of Nash's. "I could only wish these two weren't the ones invading my personal space."

"Aw, gross, man," Nash says, staggering back. "I wish you happiness and all, but seriously. Do that homo shit in private."

"I––I am not even going to respond to that or I might hack your face in with a cleat," Arthur says very solemnly, clenching his fists tightly. Eames looks a little like he's been slapped in the face.

"Don't be like that," Nash says, "come on, Arthur. You know what I meant. I didn't meant anything. Look, here, I'll––here, I'll make it up to you."

He detangles himself from his friend and from Eames and trips over to the dinghy, where he leans down and pulls up a fucking tupperware container with four lobsters in it, the brightly colored rubber bands on their claws showing through the plastic.

"I'm going to fucking kill you, Nash," Arthur shouts. "Not only did you take somebody else's lobsters, at least two of those are definitely over five inches, I can tell from here, Jesus Christ!"

"We were jut having some fun, man," Nash says, "here, you take the biggest one, it'll make you feel better."

"It will––it will _not make me feel better_ ," Arthur says hotly. "Oh my god, put it the fuck away before I punch you in the face."

Nash shrugs and puts it back in the container. "Cool, man," he says. Then his face brightens. "Dom! Dom, hey!"

Arthur looks at the gangway; Dom is storming down it. Ariadne is coming down behind him––she must have gone up to man the phones at the pier box at some point.

 _Good girl_ , he mouths at her.

 _Don't be patronizing,_ she mouths back, but she's grinning wide enough that he doesn't actually feel chastised.

Eames has set the towny on his drunken ass on the dock, and reaches Arthur just as Ariadne does. They stand and watch as Dom starts yelling, Eames's arms slowly making its way around Arthur's waist.

"It's not looking too good, is it?" she asks.

Arthur shakes his head. "Not for Nash, anyway," he says. "You'll still have a job, no matter what."

"Well," Ariadne says, "I was never worried about me. I am the perfect employee."

Eames reaches with his free hand to ruffle her hair. Dom's pulled out his cell phone and is calling the police or the harbormaster, by the sounds of it, while Nash and his friend sit on the dock, starting to look vacantly worried for their future livelihoods––and _lives_ , if Arthur has anything to say about it.

"You want to continue that streak by going and lining people up?" Arthur suggests.

Ariadne sneaks a look up at the pier and groans. "Ugh, all right," she says, "but tell me if I miss anything good."

Eames's hand retreats back to his own hip; Arthur feels oddly bereft. "What's the matter?" he says.

Eames shrugs, mouth twisting. "Perhaps not in front of the passengers," he says.

Arthur just shakes his head, not understanding. "But in front of God and Dom Cobb is all right?" he asks.

"Nash isn't the only one who hates homo shit," Eames points out, hunching his shoulders. "Cobb's okay, at the end of the day. Even if he is deeply fucking disturbed."

Arthur huffs (it's _weird_ , it's weird that he should be attached so fast, but then he's known Eames for longer than he's known almost anyone), but Eames isn't wrong. "I guess."

"Arthur!" Eames cries. "Are you saying I'm right about something?"

"I never said anything of the kind," Arthur says, edging around the sodden depressing lump of Nash and his buddy to go get ready for sail. "Anything you infer is your own issue. Go up and take tickets, will you? Tell Ariadne to forward the phones again and get down here so I can quiz her on her midships."

Eames smiles wide at him and Arthur's heart flutters, like––like a teenage girl's, or a butterfly, neither of which is something he really needs more of in his life. "Sure thing, darling," he says. "Whatever you say."

-

The harbormaster comes a few minutes later, along with a couple policemen. Cobb moves the operation over to the edge of the dock to allow passengers by without messing up the line, but it doesn't stop them from rubbernecking. Yusuf, for all that he's enviably brilliant, is fucking terrible at the end of the gangway station, letting too many people onto the deck at once until one end is nearly in the water.

"Jesus Christ, Yusuf," Arthur barely stops himself from shouting, "please keep an eye on your station."

Yusuf looks surprised to realize they're sinking and waves a sheepish acknowledgement, walking in front of the ramp and explaining to the person about to step off it.

"That's all we need," Arthur mutters to Ariadne, "we'll end up sued for everything we've got left," before she stares at him with wide eyes and he remembers she doesn't actually know anything about the business and could very well believe him. "Not really," he temporizes, then gives up when she just looks even more worried. "What happens after we sheet in?"

"We––coil the halyards?" she says.

"Good girl," he says again without thinking.

"Seriously, Arthur," Ariadne says, her voice approaching a whine, "just because––hi, yes, welcome aboard, please take a seat on any of the benches and remain seated until we get our sails up––just because I'm younger than you––"

"What would you rather––welcome aboard, please take a seat on any of the benches and remain seated until we're underway––what would you rather me say, good woman?"

Ariadne rolls her eyes and doesn't deign to answer except to gesture towards a bench for an approaching tourist. They continue the quiz until Dom gestures to Sam, who must have shown up on his day off just to let the boat go, the poor guy, to undo the forward spring.

Arthur can see Yusuf move again out of the corner of his eye and the rest of the line gets through the rigmarole of boarding the ship without incident. Nash and the still-nameless towny are led away by the police as Cobb is starting his safety narration; the passengers are too busy whispering about it to pay much attention, and Arthur resigns himself to a difficult sail.

By the time they get back, Ariadne's a changed girl––rather, woman. Her lips are wind chapped and she's got the beginnings of a sunburn but she's really obviously thrilled. She looks happier than she has the entire summer, even karaoke night, which is saying something.

"That was amazing," she keeps saying as they shepherd the passengers off the boat and back to their vacations. "That was totally amazing. I can't even...it's like pure creation."

"I knew you were an artsy type," Yusuf says, coiling a line at the stern. "I could tell. You have an aura."

"Your face has an aura," Ariadne retorts, but she doesn't stop smiling.

-

The day passes without much further incident, other than news of Nash's imminent arrest filtering down through Dom.

"I always knew that bastard would get himself in trouble," Arthur grumbles to Eames as they clean up after the final sail. "Fucking asshole."

Eames, out on the bowsprit tying the jibs down, doesn't do much more in reply than grunt, but it sounds commiserating, if a little exasperated.

"Sorry," Arthur says. "I know I keep saying the same things, I just––agh. I hired him, you know? I knew he was a problem and I trusted him again."

Eames grunts again, sounding more annoyed.

Arthur tries and fails to stem the flow of words. "I don't even have words. How could he have been so stupid? He'll never get a job again, not from anyone worth working for. No number if sea letters is going to change going lobster fishing in the middle of the goddamn night."

Eames ducks around the headsail lines and back onto the deck. "We're going to need to do a patch on the outer tomorrow, it's all torn up on one end."

"What, really? I don't know if we have enough of the good sailcloth. Fuck me."

"Gladly––"

"Eames!"

"But perhaps in private."

"I'm not the one with an exhibitionist streak."

"And only if you stop talking about Nash," Eames says, putting his hands on either side of Arthur's waist.

"Sorry," Arthur repeats, wincing, putting his own hands on Eames's arms. They are satisfyingly solid under his fingers.

"Also please stop apologizing," Eames says, tugging on him gently. "It makes me uncomfortable to know you ever admit you're wrong."

"Fuck you," Arthur says easily, inching closer, running his hands farther up to Eames's shoulders.

"Next time," Eames promises.

"No nookie on the boat!" Yusuf yells at them from the main deck.

Arthur rolls his eyes and tips his forehead onto Eames's shoulder, flipping Yusuf off with the hand not currently occupied playing with Eames's collar.

"PASIV tonight?" Eames asks. If he were anyone else, Arthur might call the look tender.

"Sure," says Arthur, then thinks about Ariadne and Yusuf and their mutually nosey ways. "Definitely, I mean."

-

Ariadne's a quick study, and before long Sam has been relegated nearly permanently to the pier box.

"This isn't what I signed up for," he says sadly, but he's got nice handwriting and as it turns out is a crack shot at bookkeeping when he's paying attention, so he and Ariadne play Rock Paper Scissors to decide who gets the box and when––Dom doesn't care as long as it gets done. Ariadne usually wins.

"I've got my ways," she says archly when Eames asks her how she does it. "Besides, Sam always chooses according to a pattern. As long as I remember what he chose last time I can usually figure out what he's going to choose, so if I'm tired and I want the box, I lose."

"I can respect that," Eames says, nodding appreciatively.

"You would respect the Rock Paper Scissors equivalent of counting cards," Arthur says ruefully. "This is why I no longer play poker with you."

"I bet he'd play strip poker with you!" Ariadne says gleefully, edging out of the way of Arthur's friendly punch.

"Arthur?" Eames prompts.

Arthur shrugs, pretending to be irritated, but he whispers, "Try me," as he heads out to the foredeck.

-

Saito shows up on the dock a week later, even more incongruous in his impeccable suit now that the sun's out more often than it isn't.

"Mr. Cobb," he says. "I have a proposition."

Dom scurries after him––doglike, Arthur thinks meanly.

-

"He wants to _what_?" Arthur yells.

"I know," Dom sighs. "But you have to admit it sounds like a good idea."

Arthur does not have to admit anything. Arthur is keenly aware that he has a hickey poking out from the left side of his T-shirt collar and is equally aware that Dom can't keep from looking at it. Arthur admits nothing but that he hates everything that ever has or will exist, particularly Eames for giving him the damn thing in the first place. "This is a ridiculously awful idea," he says instead. "A charter? To Robert fucking Fischer? On the PASIV? Why don't you open up my veins and sell my soul along with yours, that'll be a good deal!"

"But if it works––"

"It's not going to work, Dom!" Arthur breathes in and out three times slowly. "On the Inception, fine, I don't fucking care, fucking sell yourself and Spintop out to any business-talking dockstealing motherfucker that comes along, but not on the PASIV."

"The Inception is too big and too obvious," Dom argues. "It's not going to work."

"It's not going to fucking work no matter what you do," Arthur shouts. "That's it, that's all there is to it. You and Saito and Robert Fischer are not going to wave in a new era of Nolan Harbor tourism! You're just going to get fucked over and I'm trying to prevent that from happening!"

"Arthur," Dom says, way too quiet. Arthur feels the breath leech out of his lungs and knows that's it, it's over, they're through, and Spintop's going to the fucking pinstriped wolves. "You're out of line. You don't run this company and you don't tell me what to do, and we're doing this, Arthur, you and me and Eames and Saito and yes, Robert fucking Fischer, because it's what I have to do to keep my company running, to keep my boats, to keep Mal's memory alive. The Kingfischer will be docked here come next week and in order to celebrate and commemorate his father, Robert Fischer is chartering the PASIV for a business dinner night after next."

"Fine," Arthur says. "But after this, Dom, after this season, I'm not doing it anymore. We're done."

Dom looks unsurprised but weary, and Arthur immediately regrets it. It's true, though. Mal's been dead for too long to be resurrected, and he can't stand by and watch Dom run himself into the ground anymore trying to get her back.

-

The two days pass, wreathed in dread and thunderheads, until Fischer's marring the PASIV's preciously ugly lines with his beautiful cheekbones and Arthur's tied off the line at the end of the pier to prevent hapless tourists from falling into the water and dying of their own stupidity.

"Show time," says Eames, grimacing.

"Let's not," Arthur says, and passes one palm slowly over one of Eames's shoulders before bypassing the stairs and climbing on board. "Just two hours and it's done."

Eames nods and climbs up after him, heading aft. Most of the company's on board for good showmanship, even though the PASIV can sail just fine with three; Dom's vanity and flair for the dramatic are two small things Arthur will be glad to be rid of when he's gone from this godforsaken place (he's carefully ignoring the gaping hole everything else will leave behind).

Arthur walks up to the foredeck, a little less familiar, now, than the Inception's, though ever so much dearer, and starts getting ready for one of the worst sails of his life.

It starts off well enough: a toast is drunk, hors d'oeuvres eaten, a sea shanty tentatively begun and abruptly silenced when Ariadne, tending the sheet nearest Fischer, reddens at one of the verses. But soon the wind's blowing harder than any of them expected, Dom staying almost straight into it after the sails are up because he's an idiot.

"What the hell is he doing?" Arthur asks, knowing there's no answer but _showing the fuck off_. The booms' clappers clang heavily on the masts behind them, trying to decide which tack they're on and failing to due to Dom's total insanity.

Eames's shrug is extravagant and elastic. "Who knows," he says, "but the we're not doing too well with this close of a haul, I wish he'd back off a little."

Arthur crosses his arms and nods. The wind's coming in too hard to talk easily, and there's nowhere to really lean besides the unstable, too-short stack of life rafts, anyway, not with the PASIV being as blunt-nosed as she is. Everything sucks.

"Everything sucks," Arthur grumbles.

"You can say that again," Eames says without a hint of a snicker, which is how Arthur knows they're really in deep shit.

Dom finally turns the fucking wheel and then they're heeling, harder than Arthur's comfortable with when there are passengers on board, although Eames appears to be enjoying himself pretty well, grinning over at Arthur every couple minutes like he can't himself, and Arthur starts feeling himself grinning back in return.

Arthur hears a wind-driven snatch of Dom saying something pretentious like "Notice the shifts in gravity" and rolls his eyes, gathering the jib sheet in one hand as they prepare to tack. "What are they doing back there?"

"A question I avoid asking of Cobb at every opportunity," Eames says. "He's determined to turn one of our brains to scrambled egg––speaking of, passing!"

Arthur pulls in the jib sheet and ducks out of the way of the staysail's boom, which is maybe an inch lower than it really should be because the splice at the top is too long and it just won't lift all the way. It almost manages to knock him into the water. Fucker.

"I hate you so much," he says, making the line off on its cleat.

"You're spewing untruths again, it's a good thing I can barely hear you," Eames yells over the wind.

Forty minutes to go and Fischer's obviously on the wrong side of trashed––every time Arthur looks back, he's leaning on someone or something. Ariadne has to coax him back from the safety lines at least twice that Arthur sees.

"That boy has got a suicide wish," Eames says.

"Don't even joke," Arthur says––then a bloodcurdling shriek comes from behind him, and everything changes.

-

It goes down so fast if flashes past him like snapshots; Yusuf pointing, Ariadne throwing over PFDs, Fischer's pale face shellshocked and white in the green wake of the water. Arthur thanks every god he's ever heard of they were under sail and Fischer isn't caught and chopped to pieces in the PASIV's oversized propeller. Suddenly Saito's down, too, and Arthur's running to lower the Jacob's ladder into the dinghy.

Eames is at the wheel, Dom shouting orders the whole time he and Ariadne lower themselves into the rowboat––Arthur isn't even sure how it happened the way it did, but as Dom unclips them it makes a certain and poetic kind of sense, the most experienced and the least, saving rich fools from themselves.

Eames has managed, though a series of combative and complicated maneuvers with the wheel, to slow the PASIV down, but Dom and Ariadne have their work cut out for them despite Eames's best (which is, Arthur knows from experience, essentially _the_ best). Dom's rowing, but then they get out to where Fischer has started to slip; Ariadne's too slight to lift him alone, and together they lift him into the skiff, clearly straining under Fischer's sodden weight.

Saito's nowhere in sight, and they row back to the PASIV's Jacob's ladder, heaving Fischer up over the side, Ariadne performing CPR that Arthur didn't even know she could do, until he coughs up water and opens his eyes.

"Shit, what about Saito?" Arthur breathes to Eames, once Fischer's sitting up.

And because he's crazy, Dom says, "I'll find him."

-

Because he's crazy, somehow he manages to.

-

Fischer leaves with a distaste for the sea, Arthur thinks––his knees are wobbly from more than liquor as he climbs down the PASIV's makeshift staircase, extra blanket wrapped around him. The Kingfischer will still be docked with the Inception and the PASIV, Arthur's sure, but he's not so sure how much use it will be getting. He seems pretty set on leaving Nolan Harbor for a few weeks, anyway, clinging to his godfather's arm as he makes his shaky way off the dock.

That's all right. Watching the Fischers' empire rot in front of him will be fun enough.

-

Dom leaves a little less crazy, a little less intense around the eyes. That's the only difference Arthur can see, but it's enough.

"He met Mal in the water," Eames thinks aloud that night, and it's all he'll say about it, but Arthur suspects he's right––some ghost of her has finally been shed, laid to rest in pearl-laid sea.

"He's calling Miles tonight," Arthur responds. "To see about visiting, maybe moving back in with the kids."

Eames smiles against Arthur's bare shoulder blades. "Good," he says. "Time to give him some responsibility besides boats again."

-

Saito leaves, maybe a little richer, maybe not; it's hard to tell.

They'll be seeing him, though, that's for sure.

-

Ariadne doesn't leave, of course, and neither does Yusuf, nor Eames nor Arthur.

They're a crew. They stick together. They _sail_ together, into the wine-dark horizon.


	2. The Glossary

SOME BASIC INFO:

The daysailing season stretches from early May to mid-October. It is most popular after the fourth of July until about the third week of August.

Keep in mind many of these words, particularly boat types, have more than one meaning. the ones given here are for this story's use! :D

Oh, also, boats, especially really big boats, are uniformly girls. My company has a skiff who's a dude, but most ships are female and regularly referred to as she. Fair warning!

 GLOSSARY:

backstay - okay, this is complicated if you don't know boats. It's a piece of rigging. Just go with it. If you have more questions I'll be happy to answer them one-on-one.

bosun's chair - a glorified climbing harness. The one referenced is just made out of line tied in two loops for your legs, but you can get legit ones that have an actual sitting platform and safety straps and things.

bowsprit - that long pole sticking out of a really big sailboat's business end.

belaying pin - a wooden pin that you secure the halyards on while the sails are up and/or down so that the sails stay up and/or down.

boom - those long wooden spars that are at the foot of sails

Chacos - sports sandals that many boating people wear because they have good traction and last foreverrrrrr. They have a really distinctive Z strap pattern that gets tanned into your feet. People compare Chaco tans! IT IS HILARIOUS.

chafing gear - cloth of some kind, most frequently an old sweatshirt or cut-up failed fire hose you can get usually get for free from fire stations near working harbors. You put it between a line and the edge of the boat or dock to keep the line from being worn away by the motion of the waves.

companionway - the opening and doors that open onto the stairs that lead down below.

daisy chain - a way of tying a sail down so it can't flop when it's not raised. It's a series of half-hitches, which are basically loops, tied off however the tie-er wants to. On a boat like the Inception, you'd use it for the jibs, the staysail, and the end of the spanker, which don't have gaffs above them. (The spanker has a gaff but the boom extends out farther than the gaff.)

dinghy - a little boat; here, rowboats.

downhaul - lines you pull to make sure you've got the jibs down all the way, otherwise they can get caught on each other or on the various lines and chains hanging around near the bowsprit.

drydocked - when a boat is taken out of the water completely.

fo'c'sle - short for "forecastle." These are the living quarters on big ships for the regular crew. The Inception has, as previously mentioned, six bunks, as well as a very small "living room" area (a table and a couple benches, basically), a two-burner manually-lit stove, a sink without running water, and some hooks on the wall. There's basically no storage space, but usually people sleep in sleeping bags and since no one is clean in the boating world anyway, it's acceptable to wear the same shirt like eight times, so storage isn't particularly needed.

foulies - foul weather gear

gaff - like a boom, but on the top part of the sail.

gangway - the retractable metal ramp that connects a pier and a dock. It lengthens and shortens depending on whether the tide is high or low.

halyard - the lines that raise a sail. There are two halyards, one on the side of the sail closest to the mast and one on the other end, farthest away. These are the throat and peak halyards respectively. The throat is heavier at first, but the peak becomes difficult as it goes and you have to pull longer. The more experienced deckhand works the peak because if you raise it too high, you run the risk of tearing the sail if the wind overfills it.

head - bathroom. Look up marine toilets if you want to know more because I'm not describing it.

jaw - the metal end of the boom and gaff that is connected to the mast. Two spars, two jaws!

Jordan Pond House - a RL restaurant in Maine famous for its popovers. Sprawling, delicious, and overpriced. It's got amazing bike trails around it. (Carriage roads FTW!)

line - a rope! Usually made from either natural fibers or Dacron, a strong and flexible synthetic, depending on where the line is and what it's being used for.

moored - when a boat is tied to a heavy object (here, an anchor buoy) that's embedded in the sea floor of the harbor so that during storms or when it's not docked, it can't float off.

peapod - a little rowboat shaped like a peapod with more maneuverability than a regular rowboat.

RIB - a "rigid inflatable boat," with a solid hull topped by inflatable sides, powered by an outboard motor.

schooner/scow schooner - the Inception is a traditional gaff-rigged steel-hulled schooner, if anyone's interested, which basically means she's a big metal boat with non-square sails that are rigged kind of sideways and which need people to pull on ropes for things to happen––in other words, she's not mechanized besides having a motor for safety purposes. A scow schooner, like the PASIV, is a schooner that doesn't have a pointy hull shape but instead is sort of like a barge with rounded edges and a bowsprit off one end.

S/V - stands for "sailing vessel"; it's like "SS," which means "steam ship." Civilian ship prefixes like this are really inconsistent, so not every sailboat has one, and usually the ones that do are big, but...yeah!

schooner bum - people who usually work both summer and winter seasons, living on boats all over the country as maintenance and deckhands and showering only a couple times a week. They're all a little crazy and/or hippies, but pretty fun.

skiff - a small wooden outboard motor-powered boat. The Inception crew's skiff is about fifteen feet long. People refer to skiffs and dinghies basically interchangeably but technically there is a difference, although if you make a big deal about it people like me will judge you.

topmast - the top section of a mast. On the Inception, they're made of wood, even though the rest of the boat except for the booms and inside walls are steel. Many ships fly flags from their topmasts.

windjammer - this is a term people think means something but it really doesn't. If you ask people in the business whether their boat is a windjammer they will be like LOL...I mean, yes, please buy tickets and come see for yourself. A windjammer is any large-ish sailing ship with room for cargo.

yawl - here, a boat used to push the nose of a bigger boat out from the dock when the wind isn't hitting right for the boat to do that under its own power. It is also a small sailing vessel, but you can ignore that for this particular story!


End file.
